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BY TORI EBERLE
 

  Image by Victoria Ilott

 

Image by Victoria Ilott

Sand down my skin with your gritty tongue,
licking up the salt, built from all
the tears I never cried.

Next, my swollen eyes, pluck them from my
face with silver pliers.

Then, caress the gaping wound
(once my mouth)
with a rusted spoon.

Sticky violence brings us together, molded
by molten desire.

As your moral conscience gets tangled,
smothered by my fire.

 

 

 

Malise RosbechComment