Woman in Patches

one that cooks and looks good and smells like she hasn’t just been cooking,
a harlot who’s a virgin,
one who’s demanding but subservient,
one who is motionless and doesn’t talk,
an emotional storm who calms herself down,
a spoon in a kitchen,
a still in a bedroom,
a stiletto heel in bed,
a flower on the outside, a nail in the coffin on the inside,
i speak in flames to a firefighter.
one that commands but calls you god.
the petty pretty pretty nun who eats flesh but is sinless,
who manages you rudely and makes sandwiches politely and always says the right thing.

if in anger, she needs taming, if in grief, she needs not complaining,
if in ecstasy, she needs to be loud, if in trouble or despair, she needs to keep quiet.
one that suffers, but suffers alone,
one that is happy but shares her happiness with you,
one that is headstrong at your feet, to inspire, but not too much.
one that is a muse to your art,
a bleeding photograph at your bedside, with a story to tell,
whom you shut up to go about your business, whom you do not hear.
i, one that conceals myself to you, i am in patches and i speak. i am the story
but you do not write me. i am writing myself.


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