"Sometimes I write about youin the kind of filthy vernaculara mother hopes her daughternever..."

“Sometimes I write about you

in the kind of filthy vernacular

a mother hopes her daughter

never learns.

So maybe it isn’t love,

but maybe it’s something–

sweet in the middle,

rough around the edges.

The kind where we kiss just before

we sink our teeth in.

After all, I am no sacred relic,

no uncovered altar:

I am not a place for pious hands.

Baby, I’m looking for a train wreck

–unkempt, unclean, unholy–

and I keep trying to make that

seem profound.

But the truth is,

I’ve got no room for poetry.

Not when my hangnail chest

goes hungry

at the mention of your name.

Not when the salt in the wound

is as much exodus as revelation–

now if you would just fuck me

the way you look at me

I might actually have something

to believe in.”

- As If in Prayer, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)