Prude Song

in my bed prudes are always welcome           where else are we
          supposed to go
we the martyrs of shame           yes           i would die for the feeling if
          it           does not barren me
first           we are the hole or we end up in one           hesitant to          
          acknowledge
longing           is just a quiet desire
we write poems about apples           red as wintered cheeks          
          crisp as a kiss           caressing
queerness           i want to be who i am           but who has the time           to break open           an entire body
of memory           to hold the sections in your hands           like a          
          clementine
in my bed           i host a prayer circle           for the virgins           & the
          regretful
we light candles           & make slim offerings           fragrant with citrus           i confess           the first
meal of the day is the hardest           to eat           sometimes           we
          all raise our voices
in want

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