...Not the kind of wheel you fall asleep at...

Heat and Metal

I bleed this month into a sock
between my legs,
and in the morning
it smells like heat and metal,
like I'd been ridden
straight into the sunrise
so hard
you could almost feel the hot prick
of spurs in my sides.
The tang of bit tight between
my teeth, the matted pelt.
And then:
the nothing between my back
and sky but the thick tongue
of sweat-stained leather,
slick with the reminder
of the fate I've bucked.




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