a prose poem

A wooden mallet is coming down atop an egg in a cup.

I’d be lying on my back

in the nude,

he atop me bare skin,

flesh upon flesh,

and his hand would be

smashing me.

Like he was trying to obliterate my center.

Pushing my ,

my , my

this way and that

as if he had the power

to control

the way it would look following

our congress.

Visual representation of story on @tolbert_on_medium Instagram



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Librarian and Information Specialist by day. Queer writer of poetry, sensuality, personal experience, and health by night. Instagram @tolbert_on_medium #BLM✊🏿