Kiss It and Make It Better

Their clit stabs like a blade.
It’s the promises that hurt more.

I massage defeat from my genitals.
Light a candle
For each dying sperm.

The hours seem to console me.
I think I am getting better.
But in Real-Time
I cannot remember.

For loneliness is a patient hunter.
A Shadow Boxer.
That thinks Henry Miller was in denial.

It’s perfect to think of them suffering.
But what kind-off prey avoids death
And taunts it to try again?

I am grateful for the silence.
Because I have nothing to contend with
But myself.

Which is such a pity.
Because I am my own hunter.

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