Wanted you for dinner,
But I shan’t deny,
You were too fire to swallow.

Pray tell, ocean rafts you had
To drought for a drink
Of the aftertaste to bite.

With no shotgun in your hand,
Dreamers drone to doors,
Farewell, my friend, you–
are forever sand in my eyes.

4th stanzas are false;
They lie to us.
Do not listen.
Khomota nei.
You: As if someone was pouring salt on my cunt for all these years.

Artwork: Veronika Bromovás: “Open Legs,” 1996

NaPoWriMo: Day 13

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