Stories
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I read your poetry like it will rewrite itself backwards. Turn into you better defined and then I’ll understand if your prose is not lonely the way you are and is about to say more than I want or expect. You write like a post on ig so I can’t look away but backwards it’s like all constructs of entertainment, not enough to craft a person but still aesthetic as fuck. Not effortlessly cool, but effort mostly hidden. I read it like a dog licking a wound:like I’m trying to rip out half healed stitches. The kind of thing you do at night in secret. If you’re self conscious about being human, which is genetic & untreatable. Still if you said it was a cure I’d let you cut me open. Afterwards I’ll construct you from your words different like you’ve been changed by my organs laid out heart liver guts guts guts. I guess I’m asking, have you? Every time we talk an appendectomy. A scar I’ll get someone else to lick at night, once it’s healed.
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