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Aug 2015
men touch me
like auctioneers--
with moist, fleshy hands
sweating for a bite, grazing
my scars with excuses, *******
the succulents on the coffee table
all under the rug with their
dusty presumptions,
hawking beneath
the skylight
with a hunger
for the bedroom
seventyfiveeightyeightyfive
(c) Brooke Otto 2015

i hope this poem sounds as gross as I feel about this
brooke
Written by
brooke
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