Buscador

jueves, 24 de diciembre de 2015

The way we used to love



The blood of my mother giving birth:
a vein.
My sister’s womb bleeding:
red lips.
The blood of my sex:
strawberry blues.
The smell of death and fish:
the future.

One day we shall die
among random lovers.
We’ll throw away what they didn’t give us
and that is all we’ll ever have.

The contracted hand of a corpse
is a story
and the sad look of our dead
is a mirror.
We’re no longer afraid of what we
 will become
we know that it will only take three days after our death
for our enzymes to eat us
That they will cry for us and then,
they will forget
for there is nothing more forgettable than a dead person.

A rose and a fly
violently smashed
reminded me
of the way we used to love. 

- CR- VocalesV


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