Behind the airlock door
there is something keeping this rocketship safe
Perhaps it is better left dead and unsaid
perhaps I can teach my tongue to curl and figure eight
fancy and tight
or maybe this is a game of fetch
where your mother -
drunk
and babbly-
throws the steak knife
on the floor
and I bring her lilac breath mints,
flashing the smile I rehearsed
during my vivisection lessons with the butcher.
I like the selection of poems you have added to your new blog. These stark reminders of what it is to be human, and why we become what we are.
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