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Sit. Dig your nails in. Feel scars that bisect,
split my ribs just so; a welted, mangled

path that leads to my forever-erect
teats, tits (whatever) since both have barbelled

steel hooped in them. Spit on your fingertips.
Find the grit-like pit of my wound. The heart-

bit that you might dig up. Find what unzips
scars. Some of us jones. Some of us bogart.

Some are the last hits. I am the last prayer.
Squeeze and knit this pressure point; the clit-end

of my last nerve end, My kit. My creature,
twilit; be slit, chit. I’m clamped, all oyster —

my thighs are clamped-up shut and you’re the friend
who is neither the damned nor a savior.