My childhood was velvet
The wooden chair dug into my skin
The priest recited,” This is my body”
“This is my blood”
And the wooden chair digs into the veins of my legs
My blood.
His childhood was black satin
It wraps his present day
His fluid body
Copies the fluidity of satin
Melancholy
We are raised by fabric
And the priest says, “This is my body”
“This is my blood.”
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 1:22 PM UTC
Love rests his arm against mine.
Together, we make cinnamon sugar.
Mixing metals,
In the unity of silver and gold.
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 1:17 PM UTC