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& Spit Out the Seeds MAG
My boy is
absolute porcelain.
Shattering,
carved.
He speaks to me like his sister,
bruised and smiling,
he kisses me like a woman,
sad and meaningless,
foaming at the mouth,
his lips
slick with feminine spit.
My boy is
sweet and sour,
he’s broken his leg once before,
and cultivated a
fear of falling.
My boy’s soul is a bathtub,
tepid and hungry.
Its fingers envelop
me, frozen.
He was a funeral when I
had gullibly assumed that he was a wedding.
My boy likes tangerines and oranges,
lemons and limes;
He peels their skin till they are nothing more
than juice and flesh.
And then he bites.

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