My Poetry
My poetry's just bones
dusty from the closet that never got cleaned out
dressed up in a moth-bitten evening gown
No rouge for these sunken cheeks,
no need,
because there's an allure that can
and should only be attained
at the opposite end
of the spectrum of beauty
My poetry's been wasted
in the kitchen doing dishes for too long
to know it's any good to anyone
and now it's drinking on a mattress without sheets
still working up the courage
to go out,
and be that one night stand
that some beautiful stranger can't help
but sink their teeth into.
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