Here's this week's www.textsfromlastnight.com poem.
With enough attention and shared time,
Everyone becomes messy.
We’re barely contained inside our cask of skin and
wrappings.
Our words, these first few weeks, testing
The other, measured, artful. Witty. Lacking dross.
Just as one tests the walls of an elevator by pressing
Their outstretched palm against its flat, corporate surface.
This must be done.
Once trust is bartered, mess can be shared.
Your sick, your defiant, tear-drinking fear.
Your blood. Your
debts, Your prison of addiction
And despair.
What I’m saying:
You haven’t earned my time.
I’m not some fucking colony on the moon
Where you can plant a flag
With your slick white seed
And claim me.
You have not asked.
You have not listened.
At the moment of selfish climax,
Your eyes are tightly closed,
And you are a fragile, distant child.
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