The unfair thing about poetry is
that you get to open up my head and
poke around inside, and I have
to hand over my mystery like a confiscated
bag, and my ribs swing apart for you
as if they were on hinges, and you can
stroke or squeeze or spit on
my heart while you're in there, and
your blue eyes can still hold oceans
and I don't even have a submarine, and
there's not a damn thing
I can do about it.
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