I am that vile whore 

my numbers are more than your numbers
because that is the way that we 
quantify experience. 

Can you forgive me?

Is that even 
a necessary 
question? 

I’m on a quest these days 
bobbing my head double 
entendre

I am on fire 

in the way that 
my black book 
is burning 

I am crackling salt 
slapping the smoothness 
of caramel ice cream 

when you taste me 
you’ll know that the stereotype 
of sweet innocence and virginity 
was a long time ago in life if not 

perhaps in 
chronology

I see the interactions 
of my manifold body 
conversations as 

education 

I have learned much about myself 
and them* there are orange groves 
heavy with fruit in my chest 

my bones are seemingly fertile 
like that (so I can support rich) 
vibrant mouthfuls of stories 

taste my citrus 

sometimes it’s the sun 
and other times it’s exploding 
bloody 

either way 
seeds are still spread 
and trees expand 

roots going for the moisture of 
supposed guilt supposed 
emotions thoughts 

I’m a disgusting monster 
drunk and doing debaucheries 

wild and raunchy
blind mad and 
seductive 

take a piece of my flesh 
and let it burst in your mouth

I’m sure you 
like others 
might learn 

some things about yourself 
I sure know that I have 

NaPoMo 04/08/13

i was in pain when i wrote words. it hurts to read them “now”.