Thighs bred through spectrums of flesh-
of warm I-do blood, and tepid desires.
An archaic disease derived from the Garden of Eden-
a metaphor for those who sin-
who make crucifixes with their legs
in beds full of promise, sheets infatuated
with 5 o' clock shadows and adorned visages
sculpted in the glory of artistic-beauty capabilities.
Hands paint with sweat across his chest, map out
their meaning through indents and finger-astrologer's maps-
printed on skin to make clear who we are.
An identity. This isn't what we are:

We are children of the shadows- refrain
from becoming antiquated statistics
scratched cursorily across the crescent-thin page of another
book. We won't live beneath the cover of leather-bound texts,
won't sleep beneath thin blankets of shapes, lines
and midnight-black ink.
Won't become those children, bound and broken with
ankle-jewelry to keep them one with truth.
Will not let purity strip us down,
marionettes dancing with air.

Bare naked, in society- birthed from the cunt of Mother Nature,
her cruelty, her greed, her whorish smile, where legs sometimes
do sprout.

Fucked-over and mistook as
degenerates derived from a bottle of turning milk.