Almost commonplace
in silence or verbosity
except, they prey upon life women who write poetry read their way in all directions like a ginger root in spring every single stolen minute in kitchens in local trains in bathroom, sitting on commodes with curled toes
They are the hagfish of this world
existing on fringes
women who write poetry
ingest everything they come across
ecstasy and agony
and everything in between
they eat language
they eat experiences
they eat other people's writings
