my stomach flutters
not with butterflies with shimmering translucent wings
but with damp maggots
feasting on my bitterness
and unwanted ambivalence
my hands shake
not with eagerness or excitement
but with nervous tears
a hurricane
threatening to drown me
my thighs ache
not from exercising the thought of you out of me
but from writing red verses
poetic and sad
stinging with every imprint.