Tuesday, August 30, 2016

Shrine

Lately, 
I've been a harlot, 
talking reason to 
hallways of gold paint 
and monkey statues. 

I am reserved among sirens
and clumsy with petals
in my bitterness. 

Long hair, cuffed pants. 
Short hair, thigh highs. 
    He sells pot,
    I'm a road slut. 

I want to impress on you 
my studded infancy
til your earlobes bruise 
and tearfully 
you turn to me, parched
and needing more,

Family is for watching my
things when I have to poop. 

Community is for assigning roles
to feed each other. 

Music is for proposing answers 
to unasked quesitons. 

God is for hovering, unsure. 

  Mom doubts us. 

    Dad condemns. 

Children: all of us,
awaiting the perfect opportunity. 
our mouths half-open
allowing slack, convictions 
slide in and out 
of the corners
of our lips. 
We haven't yet learned to 
clench while we watch. 

With these figure heads, I'll spend 
my whole life waiting on patience
to settle in. I'll waste this page 
and the last and each
to follow, scratching off all the reasons 
I don't deserve to wield ink. 

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