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Men with their soft whiskers and hard
voices.
I have contemplated splitting open
every man I have slept with
from mouth to hip. To find
myself within.
Instead I take his lips
and I become a worm, writing worm poetry
about love
digging myself deeper and deeper.
And together
we are a poem of sort.
The men I do not gut, and
the woman
who does not know when to stop
trying to find an opening to climb into.
