PTSD [#2]

FDA approved for those who can’t afford organic
chokes energy from WIC’ed babies thick-thighed

 with hormones that make steaks fat, make asses fatter
Thighs rub, chafe, make heat where cold glares peer with open lips

from seismic ads, invite their men to lynch-worthy dalliance.
Breakbeat psalms exalt: only
a dog wants a bone.

Spandex expands to its limits weaves long and thin down backs
like scrolls misinterpreted, rewritten, or destroyed.

Women’s bodies gape like deep cuts, sliced open to juicy rawness.
Usually quiet, turn violent assaulting each sense, stealing air upon disclosure.

They are wounds that never heal, hurt to introduce pleasure;
reward pain with surnames that don’t match

smell of earth—life named dirt; disrespected
with remedies acidic thieves hawked

by their smiles and promises they will be cured or treated as lepers
if they dare sweat, breathe, bounce, or sit wide-legged.
Love yourself bare-breasted fiercely as a man defends his mama and ego,
Angrily in love with yourself— anything that threatens risks limb, risks life.

Trust yourself with your very breath, happiness and heartbreak.
Be god to yourself; covered head honorably but unbowed;

gentle with yourself like a first love and the ordained silver of forever.

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