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PORTRAIT OF MY LADY AS A YOUNG ONION Her exterior is rough, but thin, And her skin Tears like paper beneath my fingers Where her scent lingers, As I reveal white flesh, Supple and fresh. What shall I reveal, if I simply try? I am compelled to peel her layers back and cry. Her core is young and green Never meant to be seen, And I devour her whole, Center, and soul. And I do not speak of her, But will always reek of her.
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Aching
The Accountant's Soul
Be Strong My Love
Commuting
Cosmology
Cross Pollination
Drawing Lessons
Fig Preserves
Gliding
Grace
Hypothermia
A Long Way South of Now
Manchild
Monument
Mountains
Onion
Oyster S(Hell)
Poetry Juice
Poetry Lessons
Rorschach
Roses in Winter
Salvation
Scrub Pines
Sonogram
Squam Lake
Tristan Drowning
Aching
The Accountant's Soul
Be Strong My Love
Commuting
Cosmology
Cross Pollination
Drawing Lessons
Fig Preserves
Gliding
Grace
Hypothermia
A Long Way South of Now
Manchild
Monument
Mountains
Onion
Oyster S(Hell)
Poetry Juice
Poetry Lessons
Rorschach
Roses in Winter
Salvation
Scrub Pines
Sonogram
Squam Lake
Tristan Drowning