something’s rotten here. I can tell
as your body rejects its bones and marries
itself to depth, as it memorizes each pore’s
capacity to repulse

the other in grandiose
ways. You take off your clothes to feel your skin.
Shave your head to know the icy drip
of the air vent on empty

follicles. Imagine
how this cold would feel without skin,
When you’re naked and tangled
within darkened bed sheets and
glowing like italian christmas lights,
take everything off

and you’re still
drenched in something faceless,
this prickling separation masked
flimsily in coats of ash; you’ve reached
and cut your fingers on fractures.


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