These clenched fists were all for you love, brandy-soaked like my liver in preserves, cut a slice of this life with the slip of your tongue. Down my neck across these carteroids sweating, bullets like trumpets sounding the revenge of social martyrs I made with this profession of love most phonetic and natural. I have slipped nooses like bowties onto myself with such ease that your cortex ignores cliches and dashed memories on the sidewalk outside our first apartment in the snow while you drink another woman’s whiskey. I am recumbent like a broken lightbulb, ask them that, ask them if they see what really exists out second stories at the age of six, and I will tell you of redeeming summer nights noticing the different ways you breathe in your sleep.


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