You, you are art
The goddesses made art when they made you,
they perfected their strokes.
They tenderly painted your eyes,
They made you the moon textured
by the scars on your thighs.
They must have thought of the clouds as they painted your belly,
and I’m a sinner to lay on it drunk and smelly.
They sculpted your fingers, not to hold a ring.
But to share cigarettes with me and be my summer fling.
Now, you are on my bed
You have my poems too,
What’s the next thing you’ll do to me?
Take away my shoe?
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