bee stings get louder,
rattle their way into our cars.
it is hot enough in here
to crack eggs on our thighs.
this world is soft-boiled.
one little puncture,
and its whole heart spills out.
if it’s early evening,
it’s time for a good cry.
what’s love?
what’s love?
what turns up in the dark?
this harp inside of me
won’t stop wailing.
he goes to kiss me
and tastes nothing but salt.
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