Whatever it is, I’ve tried it,
being here, alive,
like a twisted shape of love
a myth of pleasure
walking down the streets.
I’ve tried, to be a woman,
a nostalgia for darkness,
an inevitable crack in the mind.

How simple it seemed
at first, to be a secret
men didn’t want to keep.
It’s true in April,
I looked like a lily,
my skin so thin,
you could see my heart
through it.

At home, this war zone, desire
was the only language known,
the single word ‘father’
burned like a hot iron.
A blue voice in the radio
kept singing anyway,
news came covered in velvet.
Somewhere, flesh weaned
the desperates.

In August, I was a striped orchid
drunk on her own nectar,
something in my lovers’ eyes
caught a lusting animal.
So when I called at night
from a hospital room
to make them list the stars,
they just recited a glossary
of sexual fantasies.

This body, this flawless beast,
never stopped pretending
the heart was no raw meat
but no one could be fooled,
it spat nothing but blood.
The bed remained
the best drug dealer,
but no jacob’s ladder.
The light only flowed over
every broken rung.

In the midst of winter,
I turned into a snowdrop
blooming as a transgression,
lips open and full of snow.
I tucked into graves,
men who masturbated to death,
and daughters tired of their beauty.
Here, this body was never ours.

Now shovel them under
and let me cover all,
let me console.
I am the woman of broken bodies
the woman of the overdose.
I am the twisted shape of love.

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