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