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Mar 2011
You’ll sit around with your girls
Drinking cheap wine
You never open the blinds
Leave the light out
What you think doesn’t move me
I’ve almost starved trying to feed myself on you
I hope you call me crazy and laugh at my words

I burn bridges to create
I can’t get inside of you without tension
Without some form of heartbreak
Imagined or created by fire

If we had stayed clean, unstained
Unmoved, unexcited
I would have stayed that lovely catatonic color.

I filled myself to excess on your beauty
Your cool-head lack of insanity
The way you clung to my neck
Pecked
At my bones
The quiet mornings with your body arching
Your fingers in my hair

I burn bridges
Because they are practical and boring
You meet on the bridge
You don’t scream from your gut from the river bank

I can’t say I haven’t tasted sweetness
Like a syrup in my filthy mouth
Fruits turn gray
Fingers scratch the skin after the collapse.

I burn bridges because of my obsession with fire
With devouring,
With the passions that destroy

You lay in bed scared of Death
And jealousy is all I’ve got left
You wake up and you go to work
And your co-workers smile
And you smile and you mean it, the smile.

I can’t fit that anywhere.
Freds not dead
Written by
Freds not dead
631
   Ann Beaver
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