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rebellious rat-mass of a girl, gut-aching
through adolescence. spiked hair,
boysenberry mouth dropping acid
diseased dishboy fingers creeped her flesh
by the orchard, earthworms in her skirt
moon drizzling cream over the first
split fruit.
it didn't take long
stir-frying Japanese girls in college— giggles
backdropping cunnilingus, drilling gently through
dorm walls. tiny pink dinks riding up her thighs
like cherry blossom tattoos.
she sent me a photo she was too shy
to take; forty years and plum, too drunk to frame.
no denying the resemblance to her heart; purple
and thinned skinned, so easy to give in
to the pressure of the blade.
I could weep for her,
in this flood we once called longing
where she erodes my phantom boner
until only a bruise remains.

9 Mar 16

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play in the orchard, you see the fruit blossom,  ripen and fall? who were you when everything was love?
 — cadmium

It's not what I thought it was, once.
Love, I mean.

Can I fake it? Do you? Does it work?
 — jenakajoffer

If the role of a poet is to connect readers to a scene or situation,  I'd say you nailed it. Thelast two lines left me wanting,  though. It's an odd way to inject masculinity into the piece.

I still love it though.
 — PaleHorse

I'm glad my odd still works on you, pH. :)
thanks for the nice feedback, and as for being left wanting, does that mean I should extend the thought?
 — jenakajoffer