one poem by L Scully

what could be communal

In my life I have been three things only.

The Scholar, prescribed by my family

name. I suckled knowledge, added milk fat.

From there I became my next shape: Lover.

I mastered lesbianism, foot jobs,

suicide notes. I fucked your burnt hair.

Nothing in me was prepared for you.

Spit kicked out of me, I resigned a Scribe.

I don’t know anything so I write. I

write I write I write I write. I to you.

For Halloween I dress in my old skin,

swallow academics, beat love, say less.

I remain open like a broken washer.

The internal gramophone of it all!