Jen Coleman

LOVE SONG WITH EXISTENTIAL CRISIS
 

I am floating on synthetic hormones,
slick as oil on a black ocean.

If I’d left my body to its own devices,
by now there’d be no more devices.

You have your own translucent monsters
whose tentacles’ grip you must break.

(It’s only a matter of time
before any of us sink.)

I come to you with swollen eyelids
and scalloped tongue.

I come to you skeletal, a modern
miracle, raw-nerved, done.

These waves will crash, face them
or not. But face them with me.


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