I’m not soft clay from the riverbed; I don’t love between warm hands
I’m foraged and cut and my love takes work
And you’ll speak to others and they’ll say look at this man, he loves easily. We should all love like him
But they’re forgetting it isn’t a choice of mine, that I need love to be whittled
I love like a feral cat: claws first and I’ll run once I’m fed
To the dirt where I’ll lay in the sticks and mud alone, alone
maybe I’ll come back when I’m hungry again