My best friend sends me a picture of the Indomie she just made,
I say to her: “You can tell how a person loves from the way they cook Indomie,
I say cook not make,
Because people that say make, think cooking is an art,
They believe that sex is the same thing as making love, 
That love is a thing we can make,
That sunsets are worth watching,
That the train they can hear in the distance is coming for them,
And that flowers that bloom must be plucked.

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There were no gods in Paris last night

How many more bodies?

How much more blood?

How much more tears, can we drink?

                                                                                     How much more flesh, can we eat?

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I learned how to walk twice

I learned how to walk twice.

First, as a baby – arms swinging like they had a life of their own. Feet tripping over a brown rug bunched up in corners, hips, swinging to the sound of a song only I could hear. My parents’ smiles, a tick in the right box, validation as firm as a hand on the small of my tiny back. I walked through our sitting room and picked up a certain lightness of feet, let it caress my soles and loved every part of it. On the school playground, I picked up a carefulness to where you step. Learned that playgrounds sometimes have jagged edges masked by the softness of sand. That cute little boys can sometimes be cruel enough to draw blood and tears and a certain roughness out of skin. Yet, there is a carefreeness to childhood that survives playground battles.

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