kiss
I’ve been waiting for warmth again
trying to conceal that I am a pile of dirty dishes
shaped in curves
and pretzel knotted curls
and knowing that you are indigenous,
even if the others don’t think so
that’s what calms me
trying to conceal that I am a pile of dirty dishes
shaped in curves
and pretzel knotted curls
and knowing that you are indigenous,
even if the others don’t think so
that’s what calms me
little ball
If I had a spear, if I plunged myself through a flagpole, it would all spill out. It would happen slowly, like honey. You are a little fucking ball of love, she says.
I think about the love inside me. If the love inside me has divided into little men and women working who all reside in different parts. If they walk around, bow-legged, and cramped over so their backs have become dinner tables. I think about if they curse at me, hate me, if they want a break. Maybe they want to get a good rest in before they have to work again. But there is no rest, they are always working, and it makes me want to cry.
I think about the love inside me. If it has died, like it should have by now, I could watch it roll out like a black glob onto my sneakers. People would stare, point, ask how an oil spill could come from a little girl's body, but no one would be sure because I wouldn’t be breathing. The love inside me is not yellow, like it used to be.
You are a little fucking ball of love, she says.
I look deep in the shower, and hold the black I feel behind my belly button. I hold the slime in my intestines, and I think that’s the reason why my stomach hurts so bad this year.
I think about the love inside me. If the love inside me has divided into little men and women working who all reside in different parts. If they walk around, bow-legged, and cramped over so their backs have become dinner tables. I think about if they curse at me, hate me, if they want a break. Maybe they want to get a good rest in before they have to work again. But there is no rest, they are always working, and it makes me want to cry.
I think about the love inside me. If it has died, like it should have by now, I could watch it roll out like a black glob onto my sneakers. People would stare, point, ask how an oil spill could come from a little girl's body, but no one would be sure because I wouldn’t be breathing. The love inside me is not yellow, like it used to be.
You are a little fucking ball of love, she says.
I look deep in the shower, and hold the black I feel behind my belly button. I hold the slime in my intestines, and I think that’s the reason why my stomach hurts so bad this year.
✱✱✱
 Sara Martin is the empire of emotions in a world terrified from womanly love. She's the Assistant Editor of Willard and Maple, as well as an activist for the termination of sea world and the result of freedom from animals in captivity despite the great depression whales have suffered from in the business of entertainment through cruelty! |
