She's complex.
Blonde one day,
brunette the next.
She's abrasive.
She's refined,
a role model who
plays
with the clay
she dismembers
and gives away.
Heavy set and thin,
afraid of tin,
like
the
man
who has no heart,
destructive yet smart.
Just hearing her first initial
followed by the ahhhhh
makes me nauseous
and in pain,
doubled over, worse than
surgery recovery,
or a broken arm
(though I've never had
the second one).
It is slipping on worm-infested mud on a rainy day.
It sends chills
down each sizzling
vertebrae
and fries my spine
like an egg
with toast,
cracked, but not broke.
To know her
is a sort of deprivation,
a closed-up coal mine
on display,
an endless disaster
of suffocating mold,
a post pile of ringlets
and toads.
I know.
I know.
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