A bitter bunch of pennies sit on the back of my tongue,
Each time your fist makes love to my eye.
We always begin with a dance of words.
The battered goat in the basement of our love
Limps into light,
All matted fur and tattered ears.
You create the creatures in the corner
That crawl up my spine.
I force you to feel like you are falling from the 35th floor.
Nightmares and fears:
Weapons best wielded by the ones we trust most.
Our words have weight behind them,
Then we put our weight behind them.
Strange flowers, the prints of knuckle on flesh.
Strange paint.

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