paint by numbers and my writers block
are having sex again. i can't do anything
creative on my own anymore. we are
scattered snapshots, disorganized,
not in order, and i'm my own "out of order"
sign on a bathroom stall door in a public
washroom. my clavicles won't let go of my ankles.
i sleep in diagonals and wake up with
"i-slept-all-wrong" and "i-have-a-stiffness-
in-my-neck-and-a-crick-in-my-back."
i had intercourse with purity,
i used dirt as laundry detergent,
i slept with insomnia as my pillow,
and this morning i ate my hygiene
in the shower. tan lines were typewritten
on my cheeks when i wore your ugly
fingers. you
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