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Tell me I am made up of more than fears,
that when I run it is toward and not away from,
that these are nerves like
jagged wilderness, not electrocution.
I don’t want to be a victim,
a softness, a shatter.
An open wound.
Tell me how to pull the lion out of
my rib cage and set it free,
how to dig out all the bits of me
that still shake like unsettled teacups.
Tell me I’m not a tragedy,
not a comedy, not a lonely
too afraid to put her heart where
her mouth is.
If I bleed let it be from my own lips,
from the quake of standing the gained ground,
and swallowing the
knots and second guesses.
I don’t want to be what you see
when you think potentially.
Tell me, tell me, that I am already
who I’m supposed to be.

am kennedy, “you have so much potential” (via siilentiary)

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Pocket watches and cold stars,
you are not all the things
you have been given,
please put them down.
In the leftover rooms are
bone sliver and bruisy rings,
ghosts of lovers past.
How many beds
must you abandon?
All but the last.

am kennedy, “Hoarding”

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The slide,
warm rose against finger tips
hold too tight to thorns,
the scream presses up against the ceiling,
scrapes at the crown molding.

Blush from head to heel,
we melt in all the places touching,
practice tasting the thin skin of the wrist,
where all the potential is hiding.

On the chestplate,
on the careful teeth skimming up thighs,
the fuck is only cacophony,
but the love,
the love is in the eyes.

am kennedy, “If intimacy were easy, we’d all be awake in the garden”

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What is a glass, a bottle,
a throat and belly burn
in the wake of all this cold water?
If this is a rescue,
which one of us is in distress?
I digress, regress, remiss, dismiss,
it’s just that the way the sun rose this morning
looked more like opportunity than light-scour.
My love, a burden,
and you, the witness,
and we, and we,
swallow down the burn
as if it makes us
together.

am kennedy, “Solidarity”
(via siilentiary)

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Let me, says the starving girl.
She scoops from her heartstrings at the dinner table
and serves dessert.
Who is hungry when there’s so much to fear,
when there’s all the soft, supple redness
of the chest left to give?
Every night we sit around the table
and gorge ourselves sick on love that is not our own.
The starving girl says,
this is how we make a home.

am kennedy, “Hunger Birds”