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you sea salt suffocater. you
cult of spiraling runes in a halo, you are
ten strong fingers and
my undivided attention.

 

that feeling
is that everything that's ever existed
is inside your plastic cup.
but you only want the ice.
you have spiderfingers. they will draw

 

until resistance, until mistakes
worth repeating. you, a wordy frothy widow?
so eager to deny everything, to un-be.
you, so easily fooled. this is not choreography.

 

you are a flesh machine of hording stranglethorns.
a slumbering Augustinian coward, with softness
and frays. soft dumb yarny dangles who say
"I can know you so that I
may come to understand myself."

 

an instinct for bloodtrails
will always be inside you, but
you can't smell abrasions, can you?
you can't smell broken bones.

 

 

(Date unknown. Sometime from 2013-2015.)