I’m not here I’m not home I might be here in pieces.
I might be home for an hour but the reality of the situation
is that I am glued fragments and I am quite gone.
You do not distinguish. You do not discern.
I cannot give you my truth in potent yet sloppy doses,
so much poison spilling across your toes.
The distance is cordial and it is what we know best.
There is no sweat here there is no blood.
There are a few bones.
We know about those.
Sniff all you want. You will only detect a ghost of a tease.
I am a billion miles beyond all this
bereft in blankets
blank as quiet room walls
bound and gagged
blooming with wounds
much too exquisite
for documentation.

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