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i once told you that i am an ocean, swirling and pulling and pushing and straining at the seams of this earth. i am a cycle continually looping and falling back on myself, discovering new cracks and fissures along the way. i am seated in the space between inhale and exhale, deep in that core of being/not being where your mind goes when it rests. i am the dark gully under your tongue where the words hide, dragging your tongue into silence. i once read the most beautiful poem, thank you Margaret Atwood, and it spoke to me in silver whistles, asking me if i could untie those knots and swing free. and i drove until the sun was a fat ball of orange and the river goldened and the tobacco and cotton fields seemed soft beds of ripe fruit and i sang your name to the sky, giving it a new nature. but then you spoke moist words into my thighs, used the soft inner to absorb shock and guilt, allowed my hair to grow as free as my desire...you ate persimmons and spit the seeds into barren ground. and i looped around on myself, i strained and pushed until i burst at the seams and sent silver and gold whistles into november air. i collected those seeds and your name, buried them beneath snap dragons and copper pennies. they still rest there.
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this is today's entry
playing:
reading: White Teeth
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