Unfinished puzzles
crystalised in the fridge,
like yesterday's nuggets.
The smile is that of Monalisa.
The heart can't take no more
local anesthesia.
Cause I'm sure I guess
my naked prose,
my sapphic verse,
is devoted in reverse.
Within our heads,
so aware,
no matter what's said
cheeks won't go red.
It's always been known,
as with shared folklore,
the mess of a body
stuck in the struggle
of its inner whore.
~
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