by Wil Gibson

She is open mouth
and kiss. The last time
she swallowed her past
it was a dirty sponge,
a hatred for tobacco.

The only idea of
forever she’s ever
known was a lost cat.

She doesn’t want to hurt,
hurts everything that gets
closer than tomorrow.

Could sing Dixie in her
hips, but the tune gets
lost when she touches herself.

I didn’t realize she
was this broken until
she told me her legs shake
when someone isn’t
being manipulative.

I don’t want to hurt
anyone, even myself.

She wants to watch people
get arrested for driving angry.
I spread a bloody child
over every poem and she
boxes up pain to talk about
the pain of the trees while
mountains hide themselves
into volcanoes in her stomach.

When she erupts
it is silent at first,
like the love has been
sucked from the room
with all of the sound.

When the lava flows
I melt into a puddle
on the floor until she
tells me it is time
to get back up.

it is so unattractive to me 
when you act so emotional.

I am slowly building my
own mountains, and feel
the magma bubble in my guts.

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