dancing with blood on my tank top

dancing with blood on my tank top
threads of always from my breast
shame, a little cough, a little dress, but the shame isn’t.

we’re quilts


maybe it’s because of the molly
or he’s just scared
but damn that boy can bleed, divinely

a mouth like his
red denim peach slices
so close to mine
medically bewitching
I couldn’t talk.

so his blood is on my tank top
doesn’t matter, mine is on his
I love him
strong eyed and mortal
I love him.

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