Here's this week's www.textsfromlastnight.com poem.
There’s no epigram
On my goddamn mons pubis.
Emma Lazarus didn’t scribble out some
American Exceptionalism between
My thick and curlies.
Ergo,
I don’t want the tired,
The wretched
The homeless, the tempest-tost .
Yearn to be free away from me.
My clit wasn’t supposed to end up
Like a dented can of apple pie filling
In a food drive.
Lacquered in dust. Pawed at with
Itchy boredom by the disenfranchised. No tools or time
To make a decent, thoughtful meal.
But, what’s left?
Where’s my wild-eyed man who needs no saving,
No rehabilitation.
Someone who smiles
In the dark, when there’s no one left to please.
A man with a landscape of scars, thin white constellations
Of open, examined suffering. Not hidden.
Not raw.
Ornaments of kindness.
Where is that earnest, unblinking love…
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