Unclothed I curl into a shape similar to a seashell: spiraling curves, careful to keep music—my breathing—inward. Closer, his artless hands reach, trying to touch me, but I can’t be felt, won’t admit consolation. Imprisoning poetry. Can’t be released. We are our words. My tongue is stroking, gently calming me. I try to talk always to me. My body is caressing the inside of itself. I always try speaking on behalf of myself. Doesn’t he know he changed us? “You’re the writer,” as if those words were a novelty, as if they touched me most, as if I didn’t know before, and haven’t already felt the pressure. He doesn’t understand. This, nebulous, female; my fetal position. Reborn in his bed. He can’t see. The child only wants to know she means something. Something special to those she looks up to, that is, whomever I’ve chosen to see.
a presence inspired by the production of perpetual passion. or perhaps vice versa. processual prose for the preservation of captivating moments. memory must exist to exist. i capture moments to make it so. "claudelean are you awake?" always. "if you could have one wish what would it be?" for an instant to forget my body. with a mind of material, i attempt to write out what is within. it helps me forget my body to make matter.
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