No one ever returns from intimacy whole.

We always leave a part of ourselves


in the crux of another person’s history,

a bookend to their yesterday.


Here lies the flesh,

its youth pulled taut,


and here is the tongue which conquers it.

In my dreams, I am


a gentle noise

rolling through the countryside,


catching stories on my limbs.

I am my mother’s child


until the sound of a foreign boy

takes down an entire village.


A spark of lust

or maybe just curiosity


gone wrong.

The white of the flames so perfect


I can almost rewrite my family’s past.

His heat begins to


dissolve the tension in my chest,

erase the color


with which I was born,

so I put out his light


before it can claim me, too.

After all,


what good is a body

that is no longer a home?


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