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.

id.
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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