by Kathleen Brien

I dig my nails like anchors into wood.
Wood of soft and peachy skin,
roughened up and split
by my needy grip of long and slender
A tree with broken bark –
my arms with torn up skin,
busted up, by a wood chipper hand,
small welts form on my skin surface.
It’s the afterglow of piercing
In my vacated mind, thoughts of dull pain fill.
Sawdust settles after close examination;
there’s a drug of satisfaction in the puss, the seed,
the sap of this bending

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