Self serving hisses (kisses)

I don’t know what it is
that gives you the right to roar
like an ocean in the delicate whorl of my ears
when neither your tongue nor hands nor
that part of you which your pride depends on
can scatter me like, what was it, stars?

Your face is set hard in the stones
of sorrow compounded. Decades,
hidden behind what you wish you were,
a fortune in copper pieces flung down a hole.
All to end up in a personal hell,
why drag me beneath the surface as well?
Self serving instincts
and a girl with the urge to take off her

My dress was on the floor for you,
buried in woes.


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