Non-Erotic PoetryThe Gingerbread ManIt is in the stillness of morning
that he hungers my soul
scented of the gingerbread
days when Vernors helped me swallow
under grandma’s patchwork quilt
off-colored, with fraying seams
a futile, thin covering
for a great pretender telling
myself, this is what I need
as I cling to lies like cups
half empty, shivering
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