they couldn’t take the
wanderlust:
the exhausting sadness,
the
all day naps,
three week periods,
not even a fake smile and
always a goblet.
moonshine as promised.
overgrown gerbil:

dependent, sitting in my cedar-scented
piss in your lounge chair in the backyard
picking pine needles out of my knots;
hollow but for some force fed
swallows,
rum-coated water,
stale lines and organic vegan pop-tarts.
a shriveling income
hooked in my dejection,
my lifeline,
my blooming red moon.
centuries of howls and hands like
needles
doping me,
and my braided tongue
lolling,
trying to unwind,
just licking up all the
shit
you fed to me:

with love,
you said.

“sincerely”

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