Your mouth: a lion's den.
A period instead of a question
mark, you argue until you get nothing
done, until the other team scores.
This is the purity of queerness.
In bold letters: the name of Cain.
I can't sharpen the claws when you
presume we fight with broom sticks.
I cannot be what I seem, a period
instead of a question mark. I cannot
give mouth-to-mouth
when your lungs are threadbare.
My mouth: a filter, trapping
dusty honor, white cobwebs.
Who is the hypocrite.
Who is the charmer, snakes dancing
by her side. Well, queerly,
snakes are only evil depending
on the fairy tale.
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