Cherished Like a Chaise Lounge or Something as Equally Gaudy

Leave legs out to

break compulsively

and with haste.

 

It’s not for the timid of heart.

So break the best parts

on the outside.

 

The pressure

jolts back into arm bones.

A smile cracks my face.

 

The pang is rational.

Broken chairs

resting damp under balled fists.

 

I stood close behind—

an edge to my hand;

she is blotch, she is stain.

 

A chaise lounge

casting shadows

—over and over—and over again.

 

A novel image of

feet broken into bloody claws,

sharp under my bed.

 

Our memories as stains,

as compound fractures—

as broken chair legs.

 

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