I’ve Never Heard a Heart as Strange as Yours
In truth, those are little red
marks of love.
Or passion. Maybe just
lust. All those tingly bits
of abstraction. Stars in the sky,
right? Rose petals
and all that. . .
But it looks like my neck
was mauled by
wolves with a vendetta
and yellow teeth.
I’m certain God
has cursed us. I think
He does it in His
free time. Bored,
so why not curse
those dear children?
He’s given you a milk jug heart
that emptied out long ago
and keeps pumping
with the violence of
the hungry wolves
living in my fingertips.
I’m not sure
what He’s done to me
but it has something
to do with everything underneath.
The houses and cold nights
bubbling inside my skin
and the pancake of colors
behind my eyes. The ones
I see overlapping whatever
might be in front of me.
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