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They call us killers, honey, I say with teeth clenched.


I wear combat boots and like how you look. Teach me to breathe poetry in the hollows of your spine, bruise my name down your back. With teeth made of smoke. I keep you perched on pretty legs in the passenger seat of my car. We weren’t made for that marrying kind of tender; we kiss like addicts hungry for a hit. We are fighters, not lovers getting drunk to find God or our mothers’ ghosts, spend all our time applying assonance to bar fights. You’re good for alliterations and throwing punches, you keep the boys hungry and on their knees. I’m not good for much at all, baby, A useless soldier with knuckles bruised from living –Killers, honey, killers.

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