Quitting you was like chelating
my blood. Still, the residuals.
After all these years you’re under
my skin, crammed in those fatty
layers between the hard front I face
the world with and the slippery
guts I hide. Only once I laid
them out on the table. Surgical,
your honed thumbnail made
an augury, proclaimed no angels
would return to this barren land.
I was okay with that, so long
as you, too, stayed away. Winged
or not, I can’t fit you inside me.
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