I wrote a bloodless story

for a man who loves

blood, to show him I

know how to kill and stay

clean. A lie: every man

I’ve destroyed left me

stained. But if he thinks

I like killing, he

won’t kill me.


Collarbone: a stick for dogs.

Hipbones: call them trowels.

Wrists: skewed ball peens whiten skin.

Fingers: brittle dowels.

Kneecaps: watch them jab the air.

My love will love me always.

I wrote my story as I thinned.

My lover gnaws my hollows.


Reader, I married him,

and I grew.

Out came babies.

They grew.

Our love is an attic.

It grew.

My madness grew


Every bloodless story

I write is now true:

I claw the door

inside it.

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