The Bed That Is Mine
There’s no room for you here
Beneath my crisp white scallop shell.
Its cotton creases cling too close
And all the space is filled with me
My ballooning calves spread to the edges
And muffin tops warmly expanding to meet eternity
No, you can’t be here (Even if you wanted to be)
Even the space
Tented from my breasts to my waist
Is filled with softly groping shadows (Where you will never be)
Copyright © Gracie Bawden | Year Posted 2012
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