her body underneath the body twitches.  she picks her own lip skin, mangles her mouth inside too, gnawing raw the inner cheeks.  she makes an ink cocktail inside of dye and iron and thin films of outer layers turned jelly overnight in the closed mouth.  stewing and steeping.  trying to heal itself on will alone.  she picks up on these things.  she picks up in private where she left off.  she finishes the job.


About thedoubleequal

TheDoubleEqual is interested in Anais Nin, Smut and subtext, Queer literature, Intersections of oppression, Jewish communities, Memoir, Poetry, All art, Subways, and Violent spiritual awakenings. View all posts by thedoubleequal

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