copies of Kafka
on the vanity
pomegranate wound
bloodstains
on the outer corners
of yellowed paper
stout glasses
of red wine
half drunk
lipstick stains
blood red
on the edge
there is not
much sanity
within the mess
of girlhood
caramel satin dresses
on long thin bodies
the sunlight
holds us
ethereal goddesses
pours into us
the idea
that love is Sapphic
it is alive
that it courses
through vein networks
the way
earthworms
maneuvers through
the damp earth
and
never ceases
it's been a while
since I read poetry
but
I'm certain
that in writing it now
I'm healing
from a past
I wasn't meant
to take into
my present
reading those pages
in Kafka
about boys burning
on shores
and lonely women
in leather
in that isolated
Japanese cities
and feeling
tired and dry
like meat
hung from racks
in the ceiling
you draw tattoos
on the inside
of my arm
with Marni's ballpoint
and I don't wash
my skin for days
I sit in a corner
and drink
from the same glass
you left
on my vanity
it's pain-pill bitter
and
has gone stale
but I'm comforted
by the
idea of having you
near me
I'm wide open
a pomegranate wound
there are bloodstains
on the paper
I read from
a book
that once belonged
to you
I want them
to know
that I admired you
your crimson baby
shade lipstick
and those candles
made of the bodies
of goddesses
we are repetitive
in our desire to
be ephemeral
I wonder
when we'll grow
out of our girlhood
but
for now,
let us hold