THE OCEAN IS A METAPHOROne hand is inside of my mouth the other is holding the door shut. This place is communal, even the wine. Someone is shitting in the toilet next to the shower where you are fucking me. Outside the Russian olive trees are in bloom they smell like they are dipped in milk. My blood on your tongue is salty. I have not yet cut off my wet hair. Tomorrow, everything will fall out of me, beached on the shore. PRIMROSEI left you and I guess I don't really know you aren't dead because I threw everything away even your suicide notes and then I started writing poems, not because you introduced me to Artaud but because you made me forget how beautiful flowers are. For example, the brown eyed primrose or how my fingertips smell after I rub a mint leaf between them. Yes, you made me forget how much I love hands.
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