NaPoWriMo # 46
Imperfect
Pastoral
She began
at the edge of the bed,
in the
wrong city.
She had
some withered roses
in a
cardboard vase.
At night
she weaved, with her veins,
a summer
coat.
She
collected bearded vultures
and words forbidden
by God.
One day she
touched herself,
and liked the
smell of fresh ink
between her
legs. She fell asleep.
When she
woke
death was
all of life.
There were
broken books
and
scattered papers,
open doors and
open windows.
She was
naked like the first time,
like when
she fell asleep and bit
her flesh
and drank her blood,
like when
she was the twilight
banging on
the door of her belly.
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