poems and orgasms and shower songs,
back scratches that I let dip a little low
like a gnome
mining in the deepest, darkest cave,
gluttonous, gleaming, bent over like a wild thing
hunched above its kill
twisting entrails between talons
We look so beautiful in light that flickers
away when you just might catch a hard line—
or a reflection in a scuffed-up spoon...
but really, I'm just afraid who will take them,
(or really, take to them),
if I let them out.
The stories we tell ourselves
are the stories that keep.