"
Women like me
do not fall gracefully,
we stumble over our spines,
we stumble over our spines,
trip over our vowels, and collapse into your arms.
Our hearts
are open books,
russian novels containing fifty pages
on the way your voice drifts across
the telephone wires each night.
Our hearts are first drafts, unedited verses
russian novels containing fifty pages
on the way your voice drifts across
the telephone wires each night.
Our hearts are first drafts, unedited verses
about each and every person we have ever loved:
the stranger on the subway,
the boy who stole our virginity
but not our heart.
Women like me
will love you from a distance
of a thousand syllables while laying in your bed,
of a thousand syllables while laying in your bed,
we will destroy you in the most beautiful way possible,
and when we leave you will finally understand
why storms are named after people.
"
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