There is a writhing
worm in my mind snaking around the things I want to do to your body.
Instead I open the nearest book
to pour salt on the sex-crazed snail and feel
tight spasms in my biceps, my abdominals, my calves as she withers. She turns to a dreadful dried up carcass,
reduced to
chaff blown over
the page that reads:
"those that live in love, God draws to himself and encloses them within himself"
I close the book and dusty dead skin cells shoot out from both ends
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