02.27.2019
this is not real.
there is a hunting knife buried between her second and third rib, and
cold iron links bind against tender skin. your mouth blunts itself against
a syllable, / bitten sound offered raw from the hollow space of your lungs.
here, the hemlock does not fall from her tongue, and her eyes are shadow-
molten, unforgiving. / your hands are not your own. your mouth is not
your own. / you dream of the fire sketching itself between fingertips,
striking at the cut of her throat, the swallow of death curling out like
a wound. you dream of the pyre, the flame shattering into air, how her
corpse yielded to heat and light. you dream of the unburning. / there is
poison sweet between her teeth and hunting season digging into flesh.
you step forward. / this is not real.
