Your hands have turned to catacombs
& you don’t know when exactly but sometime last month the last of your violets wilted in the hollows of your collarbones.
You’ve got spiderwebs for eyelashes the pupils of a black widow
and when they ask you if you’re okay, you explain you haven’t eaten much today

you smile with brittle-boned teeth.
Your heart feels unsteady in the way that it just won’t ...

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