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.

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