my young body is dying and

jesus christ runs his fingers

along the spine that runs along

my back

like hot metal train wheels run

along the track that runs along

the dirt

more gentle than you think

one digit missing and there's

spurting blood

that looks like something

you'd pour onto pasta

i'm doused or covered or splattered

i don't know the right word


my hands only hold their own wetness

but they grip tight

as he weeps and says 'child,

farewell' and death does not come

his chest rose with the first syllable

and sank with the last

i feel it rise

then i feel it sink

and death does not come

to take me

there is no home

i felt it rise

then i felt it sink

and death did not come

Moi, j'avais jamais rien dit. Rien

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