Could I bury my head in your chest bones?
Unlike the smell of rain on country road sediment
I can not find the tears to make my trauma relevant
There is no sweet scent found in my complex petutlance
I wish my mind quiet; when its thoughts are all Old Testament
This level of self-loathing; to date, has no precedence
Though all my acts of selflessness have never afforded me benevolence
Could I bury my head in your chest bones?
Maybe then I'll find out if I am worthy of your true elegance?
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