My tongue speaks the language of your fingertips. Central pocket loop whorl. The soft skin of my hips is a crime scene. Hollow my bones. Carve in hearts. Suck the juice out, let it oil the pads of your fingers. Luminol the bathroom.
-excerpt from ‘Chili Oil, Buttercream: On Crime Scenes and Wanting’ by E. (full poem can be found on my Instagram: soundofthecedar )
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