chasing the soul (novapsyche) wrote in cafe_brighid,
chasing the soul

Confession #8

There is incest in my hip.
There is a chocolate sauce
on my pinky finger, extended.
My God, you are pink.

I fluff up. I believe the sieve
of memory will shore my shreds;
you'll spill out and pool.


Together, tiger meat, sinew
and champ, a lunging motion,

longitudinal, barely scrapping
but to bite. There is the urge

to get away, for the prey.


I collect the tide
in my hipbone. Waters swirl

and swerve. Cliffs, smooth
as egg sacs, curl into the crash.
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