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She--

a sharp
throb around my
thighs & in the soles
of my feet. It’s made me
fall down staircases
on multiple occasions &
the bloodstains
left in the carpet
were always shaped like fingerprints,

like veins of
red ink on skin
that wants touch, any
touch—
sleepy eyes drawn to
pale perfect lips.

I swear I can hear
it in dreams
I don’t have, behind me
when I don’t turn around
She’s the one
that fingers the hemline
of my dress—
kisses my lower
back—well-
worn bed sheets (thick
& not alone)—
They’re dreams,

dreamily I
draw her lips with
poor oil pencils although
I can’t picture the eyes or
the freckles.

It’s the quiver
in every sketched line, why
I can’t look away from
the warmth or the drawing, her
wrists,
her thighs

& it’s not
right, is it?
The centers
of my palms are
shaking hot &
unfocused, like lenses
of a lying camera.

The touch, the touch
isn’t killing me quite yet

But my bones hurt from falling
down these staircases,
there are bloodstains in
my bed sheets, I’m
sleepy & she
won’t even look
when I’m

smiling, why won’t she look at me when I’m smiling.



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