Neck Ache

I will navigate the after with the caution of George after marriage: flippantly. Like I know there’s no forever anymore. And I’ll take a neck rub, leg rub, clit, and if your lip bleeds I’ll lick the cut and flesh and you’ll whisper, “You’re one of them now,” and you’ll list every thing you’ve skinned to remind me you understand insides better than Jack did, your navigation’s a notch above Columbus: if we had maps you’d place us.

Promiseless, Bible-burnt, camp bed pews, you gut me from the knees up, each ricocheted bone a muscular clue. Men scream, “Amen,” in other rooms, get hushed by men, watch men, other men, as I spill. I’m a crossbow left hand squeeze, and in clockless, washless time you’re a measured fit. Your tongue is nettle stung and my thigh tops carry your name now.

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