Sunday, May 2, 2021

Trigger Warning: Mention of blood.

When you’re ripped to shreds / don’t blame me for the sins of the wolves / all I have is my walking stick / when I cut my leg and blood trickles down / I picture a warm bath / for the thorns in these woods are thick / I hear some are still tangled in them / Tuesday will you be able to pick up my call? / she gets her nails painted pale pink / each Monday / to match her rotary phone / I think she lives and dies / in telephone wires / all I’d find would be a heavy dial tone / coffee cake for breakfast / bitter tongue / still, I devour

This poem was published in Issue 2 of Last Leaves Mag.

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