It’s not mine
this harvest over my back
and stretched across breasts
that ache
to be
or to be slept on?

They aren’t sure of anything
these feathered wishes
whose fruition was
a joke

Until… what?

Oh no

GO! get out while you can
while there’s still enough wind
to twist you away
Because these callous claws don’t retract
You should know that by now

Can’t you see the scars?
Like lines on an atlas
pointing you towards a place
that has neither treasure
nor worth nor value

Only dirt under
neath your fingernails

Do you regret me yet?
Stand on this island
boiling with kerosene
and don’t be surprised
when I pull out
a match and say,
“I’m sorry.”


One thought on “m0nster

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