“you’re very Prussian in your sadness,
you live life dark,
brooding
very Soviet,
as if you’re being oppressed daily
by the communist regime…
a clinical masochist—

you’ve changed your mom’s mind about scars,
told her they’re combat wounds,
a tangible map of grit,

your sadness is in C major,
and I can’t tell,
if what I hear purring from the depths of you,
sounds like
the Bee Gee’s Jive Talkin’
or Johnny Cash’s rendition of
‘Hurt’…”

your endless rumination is a buffer,
makes you live hard
eat hard
fuck hard,
sleep …
it makes you distant enough to keep…
there’s a shade under your clothes
that
makes my cock
stiff like tungsten,
milked to fine powder
combusting…

dripping
crushed
milky sap
milkweed,

you’re a garden
in full bruise,

there are weeping sores
from cigarette burns,
lap full of tears
a mouth wet with salt,

I don’t mind…I’ll lick it right up”

Ingrid is a refugee that scribbles nonsense and makes it into verse. She hopes it resonates. Her goal is to be an anonymous voice that cuddles the masses. You can find her on Twitter @BrujaLamatepec