the pain, I push down the mourning
of the person I used to be,
before I became strong.
I don't mind. I don't
pay any mind to it.
I'll stop the car
near the cliff that overlooks
Catalina, to vomit blood
and it reminds me
of menstruation of
the mind; my crimson chin
glitters in the crinkled
coastal sun, painting the
roses, the blooms on
the cactus, purple and red;
no pause and no stutter,
just a white handkerchief
catching the nectar,
my mind pollen, to print
from cotton to page.
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