I’m not dinner

I am menstrual

unable to fruit.

Wanting beef jerky instead of this complicated plate.

As I hold my hips in my hands, roll my brain back into my eyes

I’m still left hanging like dysfunction on my tongue.

And my heart with its dimensional view of my innards

aches to know a social situation that isn’t frightening.

I write about a lion…

a lot

because

I'm caught between its eyes… often.

Even when I take the long way around a short conversation dancing my poor hurricane til’ dusk lamps bursting in my wake.

He couldn’t ignore the clumsy way I pried open his jaw

Felt the slick sharp of the teeth marked with my name.

The way that I crawled into his mouth and made a bed of his cheek

Lit a candle and wrote on his tongue.

It's dangerous over here, on this side of childhood.

The walls need bleaching after being drenched in grace

and in forms

gestures

silhouettes of what's to be.

Not enough band aids or therapy.

I'm just fragile right now, I think.

Be gentle...

Like the process of making jello.

Like when an autumn leaf crunches into oblivion black back to its maker's arms where I'm half lit unimpressed in cities under street lamps exploding into whispers of me...

This is my erotica