We

So we meet again, we women, who have been scorned by the explicit sights of love (or something that love once was). We women, never moving, in continuum, sisters desecrated and devoured by miscarriages of hearts and dogged days under sulfur moons, by the rivalry of our thighs and limbs entwined with another's. And each we say: I beg of you, I beg of you, I beg to be wanted by you. I gather around you women, brought here by what was lost, and what is now forever sutured into our bones, what we cannot forget because we choose not to, because we are comforted and comfortable here, in this mess. We women, we find solidarity chained in ink, in words, covered in sleeves of kisses and bruises. And still, I am alone.