12.6.17

 

we were a dreamlike thing

crafted in obsidian

brandished at the sun

conflagrant inside with

systems

of

forbidden

lovelessness

she’s lucky, you said, her 

mother has no tongue left

to speak with, while ours

daggers you with her open mouth. 

 

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Written at 9:13 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.