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I can’t help it when I well up like this, the sting of my reality asks me to lend myself to it completely and then there are tears. My ovaries plead to me, tell me to hunch over and spread low. My hands tell me about yours, how they want to feel you. To taste the smell of your sweaty palm. I wince in this heat and I have to go to work and I feel it in my back
I should give myself to the earth but instead I am a barista for the day. All I want is to lie flatly on the hill of my life to rest. To take honest breaths. Instead, I feel for the temperature of the milk to reach 155 degrees. Then pour, pour, pour
Out of me comes blush and then crimson cherry. If I were a daffodil the wind would take me, and I wish it were so. A permission slip from the wild, I am excused from real life for the day. Now I go frolic naked in a plush field of grass. First I am the lingonberry and then I become the soil underneath me, a calm creek sings between my thighs. I melt into the ache. This is how I want it. I will trade you a Thursday afternoon at the cafe for the fullness of my gnawed reproductive guts expressed near god, near a tree, near nothing so I can feel it completely.
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I love the lack of punctuation at the end of each section until the end (.)
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"If I were a daffodil, the wind would take me"...I felt this. What field would you be in...maybe I could go too!