I want a woman whose words
I can unscramble into my favorite poem
whenever life becomes too thorny to handle.
Too loud to hear the voices echo.
Too rickety to reminisce on.
I want to be remembered as the man
with bloodstained hands from ripping poems
out of his heart, even when he didn’t
have a home to place them in.
Not the boy who could never
make it pass a women’s hips.
Because although they don’t lie,
the truth lies in places far beyond
where the eyes can’t see.
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