You ever feel hungry
like something died inside
you?
Like the bugs are all chewing it up?
Like it is festering and green
Turning to dull olive tones
And then to brown?
Like you have to pull energy back up
from your toes and your feet
and your ankles just to get your legs up and out of the chair
you thought you would die in?
Don’t make me do that
adult thing where I have to
make little humans.
I am looking for
love inside my underpants
that I do not wear.
It was rape
It was made up
It was intentional
It was a flat white not a latte
not a cappuccino
not a single shot espresso
Not something I liked
in particular.
Got me good. Savage in the heart by way of the tip of the back of my tongue as I choked on the index finger and thumb thrust into my notions like the nozzle of a gas station pump filling dead dinosaurs into my mechanical one.
And the rims on his Mercedes Benz spun on and on and on like my endless craving for a goddamned cup of mediocre unfresh black coffee poured into a stained porcelain mug my grip married 4 days ago.
My hands will be put
upon your belly, breathing
my soul into you.
It’s a wide fucking
street, but somebody’s gotta
cross Fallen Stars Road.
He felt my longing;
he felt my want. And ran like
stardust disappears.
 | Frank Giglio on Haiku’d secrets |
| Mary Fae Smith | L.K… on What Woman Wants | |
 | Elle on Let’s talk Urination |
 | Kristi Bernard on Another’s Words. My… |
 | Mom on Mother’s Day Epilogue |
