A Curious Girl

She is made out of my heart—

Worn as rib cage, read like story,



Traced back to

a curious girl.

Clutching a throat.


The last time I clutched so

was to throttle,

a washed-up weekend—


Unoccupied Lovers,

Making friends with the weekend—

Making donations to its end.




(Surely, I’ll drink my fill.)


{Like flash pictures in mobs,

Like flash pictures of sobs,

She cranks her heart to breaking;}

{But over-cranked, I was shaking.}


(Feeble pants of breath is my

Love thrown about a room.)


*Pause for effect*


Effect 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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