Maya Angelou

the detached

We die, welcoming Bluebeards to our darkening closets, stranglers to our outstretched necks, stranglers, who neither care nor care to know that Death is internal. We pray, savoring sweet the teethed lies, bellying the grounds before alien gods, gods, who neither know nor wish to know that Hell is internal. We love, rubbing the nakednesses with gloved hands, inverting our mouths in tongued kisses, kisses that neither touch nor care to touch if Love is internal.

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