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Nausea by

Pig-grunt, my sweet offal,
and suckle this slop of lips.
Wrinkle these caving breasts
with mouth-shaped indentations.

Why must this love stain?

I, a greased muscle,
am forced to eat
and pick the flesh from between teeth--
to become red meat.

Release me.

The orange has hollowed,
its rind lodged and fickle,
salivating our recycled juices.
April Michelle Bratten
Let's Become Like Birds by Laura Forgie
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