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Ebola is real. Ebola is real.
Smack the world as you would slam an oyster.
Find the prize—your ontological argument
Gas prices are down.
          Gas prices are down.
Wash the pearl as you would wipe a newborn.
Marvel at life—and its derivative meaning
Ebola is real.
Gas prices are down.
People are dying and we are smiling.
Kiss me
with every breath
you're willing
to deprive yourself
of.
It's an addiction
Rahab
A harlot, a monster
She tears at my flesh
She weeps at my glory.
I am ensnared in her gaze,
enslaved to her power.

Blazing in the sun, shimmering in the moon
Inexplicable, flawless
Her smooth arches have seduced me.

Let me go, I pray
Let me go
And she released me.
But she chased me
She never found me
I am free
I am lost.
If the truth were shallow
we would all be swimming in it.
Knees scraped along bark as the lion tree
****** me into its embrace.
My mother hated that I climbed trees.
My mother hated that I climbed trees
with the neighborhood boys.

The sun stirred in the sky,
clouds melted apart,
and there was fishing
there was biking
there was climbing—and lots of it
there was fighting
and, of course, too much pretending.

The sun followed me,
spinning in time,
hands covering its marked face.
Puberty came
and with it my curls—my genetically re-enforced femininity.
Goodbye, hats!
Hello, headbands.

No longer looking but looked at,
baptized in my own hormones,
I stand on the roots of the trees
that no longer **** me in.
Death in winter
is the warmest slumber.
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