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Pulse monitors on each inch of my leg,

my nails alien white,

the strap buckled on my waist

with floral tendrils that fight

the last ignition of my free senses.


You bite my lip so hard you take

my banana smile and split it into

halves, one lower one upper,

each trembling with the misplaced

taste of language in the mouth.


And our cursive silent exchanges:

Pain is pain for those with hearts,

the kind that mirror and shatter after poor


These feelings must be a part of being human,

for those who are free are angels.


My body bursts into a glitter rainbow

of stretch marks from touching itself

and re-designs a burning handprint of

lights, a map of faces that appear

like those cotton evenings

you watched me through Ananke’s lens,

one only Cupid could envy.


For you my torment quivers like music,

but I bargain with the air

to take my memories and run away.

Begin with my strands of hair,

take them,

take this

being human and run away

into a tunnel of overture,

where the full moon sleeps

and dwells on someone dead, unborn

in the same dream.


Just let me break these bone

knots that tie me to you and

your essential veins that rot and

ponder my skin like a cancerous rash

eating into my roots,

my Medusa spread six feet under

where you slip in through porous rock.

And I beg you to release me

with one honest touch—

even a rough smacking on my cheeks

would do if I knew you felt true anger.

The noble aching of a predator for dew

laid down like a naked dish

of olives you ordered but I filled with brine

and you threw up and said

I cannot change what I eat for you.