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If you were to rebuild me, fashion me
in your likeness, your image, spread me out

on the dissection table. With hasty
stitches suture in zippers, so without

pain you can have quick access to my heart.
I am a gray blossom, passion denied,

wearing other people’s pieces. Apart
from the shredded feral divine, I pride

myself that I have survived you. Perhaps
you’ll never feel guilt, just white static noise.

I might be a monstrosity, but you,
little god, you’re what happens when love snaps

and you get bored with me. You break your toys
so that you can fix them with nails and glue.