I’m gonna make me a woman from your garden flesh.
I’m gonna sprout from your ribs.
I’m gonna **** your marrow dry and grow
And I hope that my bones will know your mouth too.
I hope that you taste the fertile dirt on my tongue;
It is silent, soil, and better
Than the words we do not say, but not better
Than your ribs under my flesh in Eden.
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 7:53 PM UTC
I’m gonna make me a woman from your garden flesh.
I’m gonna sprout from your ribs.
I’m gonna **** your marrow dry and grow
And I hope that my bones will know your mouth too.
I hope that you taste the fertile dirt on my tongue;
It is silent, soil, and better
Than the words we do not say, but not better
Than your ribs under my flesh in Eden.
2.
