Scars.

A friend joins me for dinner

says

he gets most upset

about

my computer screen

says

I down play it

or

exude

a certain kind of stealth

that makes him

feel

enraged

on my behalf–

I say

that I don’t think about it all that much

and

learn

right away

that I have, in fact, lied.

I do actually,

think about it.

But not with my mind,

or my feelings–

But with my right ovary.

She’s been sending

prickly

pins + needles

up my side for days now–

Silly bitch.

Can’t she see I’m trying to finish something?

“Children show scars like medals.

Lovers use them as secrets to reveal.

A scar is what happens when

the word is

made flesh.”

– L. Cohen.

I roll a little something

and find myself

delightfully charmed by 102.5FM all night long.

Because yes.

The pain,

well, she’s come back, hasn’t she.

She’s kicking a toe,

she’s weaving an arm back in.

And I know why.

I know why.

x.

http://www.2mbs.com/

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