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Sunday Dinners

strips of me like angelʼs hair

you contort your wrist politely

the sound of metal on metal

screeching scraping

and make me a beehive of flesh

lithe like the half-baked ideas of adolescent boys

that you capriciously entertain

but the beehive slips away

so you slurp slowly to draw it out

because itʼs romantic that way

because maybe a pair of lips awaits you at the other end

but there are only specks of skin that I have torn from my

body drawing blood like spilled red wine

By Jackson Richmond.