A Curious Girl

She is made out of my heart.


A rib cage worn, read like a story.


Traced back to

a curious girl

clutching a throat.

The last time I clutched so

was to throttle

a washed-up weekend—

Of Unoccupied Lovers,

Making friends with the weekend—

Making donations to its end.


(I’ll surely drink my fill.)


Like flash pictures in a mob,

Like flash pictures of her sobs.

She cranks her heart to breaking,

But over-cranked I was shaking.


(Feeble pants of breath is my

Love thrown about a room.)


Movement wasted on

a curious girl,

She lagged behind.

She was not who she claimed to be—

A washed-up weekend, the Unoccupied Lover

I knew myself to be—.


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