Audre Lorde
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In this space they tell us is home
We
Are often made to feel like we need our straight-jackets
Urged not to squirm,
Not to scream,
With hushed voice
And warm mouth
I have forgotten the way
we loved with salt still on our skin,*
but not every secret
hurt. Blocked out the image of the stained blood
color of your lips against her pale parts, the sweetness
