If I am wanted
like the slimy gold of a peach
on an empty summer evening

If every one of my limbs
is picked apart by the hands
of another man,
his blood clinging to me
like wildfires
on the country of my skin

If I stand outside my body,
molding it finely with my own
pushing and pulling
the soft parts of me, 

so that I finally glow
in silk ribbons

If I sigh, and the lions roar
If I whisper, and the mountains turn to dust

will I have been loved.


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