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THE [               ] CONDITION

THE [               ] CONDITION

my organ is huge
with many prongs on it.
it is waving and looking
through the air’s smells
to find a bunch of polished holies
i hope to eat slowly.

to write this, i took my glasses off.
a lot went in so that
every word was loaded.
cold food went in the oven.
i used a knife and wept.
writing is not the worst thing i do.

i, too, have an aspirational list of exports.
but that’s not what i’m doing
with my time.

sometimes,
imagining men don’t exist
helps me sleep.
almost all the time,
doing it myself
helps me sleep.

the most important thing i learned
is to believe people when they talk.
i can’t always.

i just watched the moon
try to get out of the ocean
really hard
with no arms.
sat myself down in a literal
wooden cube in the basement. 
wrote hard into my notebook
trying to connect
telepathically
calling you a dumbass
for not hearing me.

listen to me while i
put your head down for a sec.
i’m writing because
i have organs i want you to hear.

can’t you try harder to eat bugs with me.

how much it costs is out of proportion
with how long until it is garbage.
i’m talking about this fun new
relationship.

i thought about you instead and birds
started dropping out of the trees, 
in a good way.

we enter my frieze.
i’m staring at the stinging field.
i feel itchy and sick but
if you ask for the sticky off my hands,
i’m sure i will love you for that. 
you ask in a letter.

i’m deciding to go further
on a curvyline that jumps
behind the world.
im not trying to make you
come with me
if you don’t want that now.

i am shivering
from the middle of my uterus.
now im a “woman” poet.
i opened my mouth until
my stomach was out.
wool with tarnish got in it.