by Valentina Salski

You, who pays no mind to my womanhood. You, for whom it is for. Who am I, after all, to believe – even dream – that the sun is for my benefit, that the wine tastes this way only in my torn lips – who am I to wish to sleep in a ranunculus field – when all I do is steal light and liquors not meant for me to enjoy. Bury the key to my soul, it was never meant to be unveiled. Sailing away, dreams cut my breath and I wake up with cryptic numbers – freshly bathed in my blood – and, that familiar pressure in my chest, the thought of you as if this were a hundred years from now in a world that lost all memories of the fact that I existed.

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