beneath the layers of fat on our chest
is us in all our angular glory
but no one ever reaches that far.
we can never say a word.
there is no fruit in the throat,
no base to our moans
we love god and trees and all these
but what is to love
in that which needs to be torn down?
and when we are remade,
who will remember the school girl
and will we ever want them to?
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