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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
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Submitted: April 13, 2014

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Submitted: April 13, 2014




These paps, like milkless tits,

spitting dry. The nipples puckering,

calling out for something. Something

wet—a kiss perhaps,


a gentle sucking to beat back

the thirst. Just a flash of me lays

the table high for two weeks, they



pick me open like crows if I could

keep them this deep. Vultures as they

are, they settle in the fish bowl like an

odd cancer, eating at something that

swipes too close.


I faked my suicide once while I ate

myself. I started with the hands, then

the heart, then the head. The body lay

open, inhaling the light, the sickness that

held the air. I tore the callused flesh from

my fingertips, I looked through it like a

penny—a coin.


The sour touch of darkness just at the

elbows, the nerves react. I stole the

darkness from itself and I mirrored it

back. It comes closer every day,

it looks like morning and sometimes

it tries to stay, I slap its face and send

it home, forcing it through the slats

where the light comes in.


I could bruise myself on that light,

the bruise would be sick under the

skin, purple and hard—could

this be the original sin? The injury

that feels like a romance, three days

out, two days unharmed.


March 17, 2014

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