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PoetryRecovery

My throat is sore from talking to
too many hysterical women;
my mind spinning from their mania
leaving little rest for mine.

And I ache to sweat.
Dry from driving too many windy miles;
sitting so long my thighs
in atrophy.

Womanhood was a dream; I remember
nurturing these growing hips:
playing at house -
playing at sex.

I had no script for the wisdom
of washing dishes on Saturday morning;
rinsing sin -
out of my hair Sunday night.

I was not shown my pulse
I found it sitting quietly with my legs crossed
when I caught myself humming
to the throb of want.

Now I can't ignore its beating
it irritates me when I'm tired
whispering that it knows my needs
I know it is no liar.

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