Wordle #182

Week 172.png

My hips are a guillotine

cleaving satin with each giddy stroke.

Limbs akimbo, I ground myself to a pulp.

I just want to feel until I am raw and broken.

In my mouth love is dangerous,

a lotus redder then any sunset.

I gorge myself on belief

and in belief the genius of union

gives way to the marginally absurd.

My heart is a fusillade,

the blooms of my bloodline

crackle and blacken.

Will you force

my memories in place

when they wonder off course?


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