Ingrid M. Calderon-Collins


…I want hands deep in my geography,
memorizing where it hurts
to trail through me, pulling at my weeds
watching flowers bloom, from my chest cavity

want oiled fingers, on my butchered rose
tongues eating at me
like they’re starving

but see, sometimes i’m soft…

and I picture us laughing
with beers to our lips
drunk kisses,
and falling asleep
till the sun creeps in

you wake me
with no morning regret
just a glistening sweat
of the hours you’ve spent
soaking in all my debts
that I’ll never pay off
at least

not yet…



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