Poetry

Three out of eleven

My body, calm as the night

Until the needle that is morning pierces through

Until the needle that is you

Breaks the tender shell in which I hide

My most valuable possessions

You crack my night open like an egg

So you can see the sun rise

So I can see the surprise

In your eyes

When you can’t find the yolk

You thought you had evoked

Child-sized adult heart

You made me feel like a child

at twenty one

I did not know my heart could still become

so child-sized for someone

La petit mort

I stand in front of you

A stripped bottle of wine

No age, no place of birth

No knowledge of what I’m worth

And then, I find myself expecting the worst

Expecting to be used because I’m warm and soft

And moist

Weeping from a place I know you happen to desire most

Struck by a thought

More vigorously than lightning could

‘Do I crave any part of you at all?’

Because the land that is my body

Though visited by you

Remains undiscovered

 

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