Of all the things I cannot taste.

I learned what to do with the unrequited before my skin knew to stretch across vacancy. The love and the wrong folded under lack of satisfaction, waiting for the attachment of a word. Like the oozing of only sexuality and pus, love and wrong stick in their unresolved place. Cobwebs on a wedding cake. A clock stopped at the hour of desertion. An easy enough thing to swallow after years. An easy enough thing to hide in a dark place.

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~ by Athena on August 27, 2018.

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