All the skin that I am in is scorched with scars. A series of constellations torn thin, Bodily Waters blossoming from my heel to head. My elbow, my knee, under and beneath my eye, and in my left hand I clutch a sliver, bone dry, and purple.

Things done to me, thing I did. Scratches and claw marks and deathly lies, taping my form up like the handle of knife these limbs are

quivering, in bounty, in memory sealed. No forgetting for these pieces. Howling holes clogged up by time. Thoughts, ferreting through, eager to plug into me when I sleep and widen, widen, like a maw to devour me. Awake.

Agog. That’s the thinking part of me; locked in wonder of the things that remain when we can not escape. Like breathing or

loving, even if from afar. Even if from our towers and trunks and oubliettes we cast arrow after arrow to spear down we

can not, stop loving. Stop wishing. That is what these scars are.

Things, that can’t stop


groaning for me to pay them heed once more and go

Ah yes. I remember that one.

It hurt



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