I care not
if someone pecks
lipstick
from your lips
now
you are
just words
and paper
since then
big, fat, gray moths
gathered in my chest
every night
and chewed at my heart
as I make poems
a joke from someone that left
I hope is for me.
I wrote to you
everything.
I've lost the count
of pages
I've tied my soul to
Every day
a new god
mocks me,
laughs at me,
pisses on me
I burn of you
as much as I can.
You still pile up in my room.
My thoughts of you at least.
The things I put on paper
your tongue, your thighs
and the tongues and thighs
of all the men I have to hate
if I ever loved you
are always on the same page
mingling and dripping of sweat.
If I was a man, someone like Bukowski
I'd drink something real
anything besides water or milk
I'd follow the trail of my muses
my tall, white, skinny muses
and let them f..k me on deserted beaches
not minding is someone sees my sin
spread between their legs,
instead of watching a little fat woman
dancing in a club, like a ball in a pinball machine
wondering how would it be
to rape her.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem