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I love that my fear lives under my bed.

I’ve been down there: torn condoms, used needles,

 

and my left toe-cutting knife. All the dead

little things I’ve loved and abandoned. Skulls

 

that will always be prettier than me.

Loose teeth. I’ve swallowed at least six. The jaw

 

of one Milady de Winter. What she

did — no, spoilers, sweetie. The things that gnaw

 

at me aren’t what you think. The Internet

where I live: “None of us fuck, see? Sex is

 

ugly. None of your free, hippy love shit

here,” as Johnny told Nancy. It’s that threat,

 

you might become mine, I might become his.

Strange how just a floor can become a pit.