this new supposed flesh
ill tailored to my bones
shakes and shivers
with the distant flutter of wings
it is thin and barren
you can tell
for when you hold me
the skin feels like fine mist
it's so flimsy it can't hold what's inside
so when we dance,
the ground inherits a marked choreography of parts;
my entrails, my lungs, my heart
in the blood pattern of our movement
strange and grotesque;
the maiden who couldn't stop falling apart
and the prince who couldn't keep her together
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