Lower your defenses.
It's coming.  It's sickness.
Sugar, you need this.  The shot
to the head, the butt of a gun
falling thud
against muddy ground.
Pull back the skin, the eyelids'
fluttering business.
Take it in.  Put it inside
her doll's plastic arm.
That's alright, cry-face.  It will
hurt some, but now it
is peaceful
lowlands.  Keep clean,
quiet.  Running
head on, headstrong
into Heaven's kitchen.
Laugh—now it is
funny, outside
of reason—the
treachery of the
This needful thing—
this sleeping ship
sinking into darkness.  
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