We're old swords, my lovely— dogged, not learning from the two hundred years that our city's been burning; we're just ashes to ashes and in between, yearning.
I am a hot little dumpling of a woman, fragrant pillows, dimples— I am a sweet and steamy comfort, silky victuals, spiced and biblical, for a man of pow'rful hunger.
There's always one who knows best, one who makes her best guess, always one who just left, one who wore her best dress; one you'll never see again, and one you will. Amen.
when I die cut me into pieces keep the bits of me in your back pockets and leave me at train stations hide me in between books at libraries and tuck me between the pews at church leave me next to shampoo bottles at the pharmacy and plant me with blue hydrangeas stuff me in between the sheets at ikea and in stranger’s coin jars I want to be known so much, I want the world to have me If they don’t want me as a whole, maybe they’ll take the scraps