They Came Wielding Stones

This is
my paramour,
fictional damsel torn between
small cities she’s not welcome and
the metropolitan conformity she’s
been sheltered from,

a concept
more foreign to
me than the seldom kiss her cracking
lips dare to tread the thoughts she
leaves me with.

Like the
carvings down her
wrist,

I take sips from
her knives,
pain she’s used
to survive in nation states where even
heavens judge the fashion in which
you died
more heavily than how you lived.

And if the sinkhole behind my ribs envelops me the way it wrapped around my skeleton, she would willingly melt away in the dust storms
beside me,

hoping for the same reprieve.

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