Poetic Attempt || Twenty-three

How silly was it of me to have told you
I like you
simply because you’ve made me happy?
As if being
with you merely tickles my spine, as if after a conversation
with you, I
am left with champagne laughter bubbling
in my throat.
When you’ve ignited all sorts of fires at the
base of my spine
(the fires you start rage boldly and burn brightly before
quietly settling
into a steady, comforting ember) as well as
explosions
in my belly that resonate so strongly within my ribs I am left
gasping for air,
bones shaking from the intensity of frustration
and desire
and anger and untainted compassion and despair and
overwhelming
sentience of human fragility: an acute awareness
of being.

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Poetic Attempt || Twenty-one (First of Her Name, Breaker of Norms)

There exists no greater art than wreckage you leave behind;
You create constellations at will, you set fire to skies.
(Rejoice, love! For you are woman redefined.)

Men seek to excavate treasure between your thighs yet
Your legs spread, giving birth to them. Oh, can’t they realize?
There exists no greater art than wreckage you leave behind.

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Poetic Attempt || Twenty

In a way, you reminded me of sand
maybe it’s because the texture of your
fingertips, as they traced the dots scattered
across my cheekbones is rough from all your
calluses, but I didn’t really mind the
light scratches because just as how the sand
on shorelines tickles my toes, the feel of
your skin against my own was comforting

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Poetic Attempt || Nineteen

What are the hard sciences? you ask to the class
a person from the back answers
chemistry
                        physics
                                                biology
                                                                        mathematics
your right hand briefly dances in the air
an obviously dismissive gesture
and light laughter forces its way out of your weary throat
now let’s forget about the hard sciences

Let’s not
I sit there mutely, hands neatly folded
on my lap; imperceptibly shaking
why should I? I want to ask
but I do not
I protest in silence

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Poetic Attempt || Sixteen

[ t h i r d ]
ink bleeds through crisp pages
for the sake of giving birth to
letters that make love
creating pretty sentences
that paint vivid sunsets
we find beautiful
and somewhere in the heart
of our madness
we start to believe that perhaps
rough patches of flesh
stained by ink from our own veins
are just as lovely

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