she mounted my head above her fireplace
she ran her fingers across my skin
and removed it with the razor blade she keeps in her mouth
stretched it across the plywood beams and let it season in the sun before making lampshades
bottled my blood in homespun glass with a sprig of mint and a hint of clove
she gnawed the meat with delicate bites and loving licks down bare musculature
cracked my bones open and sucked the marrow with a satisfied sigh
soaked my organs in brine and let them dry on the same window she later hung them from as chimes
and i just smiled in contentment as the essence of who i was became the essence of what she wanted
no more constraints
no agonizing questions
i told her i was hers to use and abuse as she saw fit
and she ran with it
As long as everyone’s happy…
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I’m not sure anyone ever really is. And if they are does that mean they stop writing?
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I’ve wondered the exact same thing.
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