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Feb 2015
I wanted to make him something.
Empanadas are ****, right?
Out of the oven, the hot corner
of a baking sheet singed a sketch
into my left forearm, an inverted triangle.

My friends claim I am more cautious as a philanderer than baker.

In bed. Entranced by his willingness to waste time
with me, I take off my bandages.

His mouth parts over my wound,
lipping its lucid resin,  sticky with pus,
he says he doesn’t mind

He tells me I am a most curious
female, that he adores
every crest and crevice,
sore and slit.

I believe him but say,
‘You have the wrong limbs near your lips.’

My scar sears as he turns me loose,
but I enjoy his playful punishment
as pain for pleasure.
Phoebe Seraphine
Written by
Phoebe Seraphine  Washington, D.C.
(Washington, D.C.)   
   The Revolutionist and SPT
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