My heart is forest fire
crispy leaves untouched
Foliage green, sweet bud;
budding up and coming
I am near-term to give birth
slow labour to deliver.
But the matchstick that once strike the skin
triggering the throbbing, bringing the tree to live
moulding the root in existence -
Now moving backwards
I taste his heart like white vinegar
filtering through pumping muscle valve
and the strong fist hold fast, stubborn to fall
abstain to feel, timid to taste
and I am crying water
and I am crying vodka
and I am crying blood
of the passing of love
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