Wordle #253

254

I draw your howling breath into my lungs,
your tongue breaking me down like a map.
There is hardly a secret between us
and those that remain
are merely pretensions of civility.
(If you truly knew what I thought
you’d hate me as you hate yourself.)

The covered moon moves in stillness,
no less a Goddess in discretion.
I watch you rear up
bestial and brazen
from the coffin of my thighs.

If there were food
I’d silence you with a meal
but there is only
this terrible emptiness.
I am too vague for imitation,
less than human,
inestimable and weathered down.

I am lost in your indivisibles,
in your sweet nothings,
in the casualties of our conflicting truths.
I split you seam to seam like a fish
your nothing but offal and suspicion.

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8 responses to “Wordle #253

  1. Pingback: No Map for This | LINES of SHADEAU·

  2. I’m running out of things to say. Your poetry floors me, and so much more. I’m seriously stoked that you’re writing again.

    This is insanely hot:
    “The covered moon moves in stillness,
    no less a Goddess in discretion.
    I watch you rear up
    bestial and brazen
    from the coffin of my thighs.”

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