Plaid cuffs snuggle your wrists like the smoke
of bacon fat on pine; the true music of white light
beats through blinds, kittens, and milk. Your
pale hand and painted fingernails as you knelt into
the foam—how deep then were the curls on your
head? Shower your face. I'm being kidnapped in
the next room. Indigo flowers on the carpet in the
hall, blood on my forehead and eyelashes.
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