by Mary Violet
I want to be: a good boy, your domesticated coyote.
My tongue’s handwriting is the shape of your body
unshaved and without a shower.
They need us to feel disgusted
with ourselves, so you commit
to my appetite unreserved.
You become tender only while listening to crust
punk and letting my fingers impersonate what I really want.
The moon is a cuck watching our disentanglement.
I can’t remember if I slept but the birds are our mothers
waking us up. You make my coffee like a prayer,
so I call you a saint right before we kiss.
It is time to creep into something
other than each other, but you don’t need a leash
to take me on a walk. You’re five feet taller than me
when I’m on all fours. You fear a million fears about me,
but only a handful are true.
Mary Violet is an interdisciplinary poet residing in Philadelphia. They completed their B.A. in Poetry in the desert. In 2020 they started an ongoing project, Warped Cherub, which focuses on the intersection of fashion and poetry by means of recycling both tangible and verbal expressions. You can find their latest poetry, sometimes wearable or typewritten, on instagram @warpedcherub.