Our anatomy is condescending
Our hips concave, they make a space
between our distanced stomachs,
quivering at the silence. Waiting
for a breath. In hopes of
emerging from this
awkwardness. Our skintight forms
of desperation, stretching over
trembling hands. We wait like
hungry children for a chance
to feed our teeth. The meat
of our existence
held in sight, suspended carrots,
stick and string that sometimes
breaks and drops the bloody mess
of doldrums in a carcass
made for me.

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