in this place a single body splits not into two but five odd pieces that wriggle back into one again but soon enough a guttural murmur parts my lips: this is not mine a soft ravishing anhedonia lulls the same body you could once call your own, unravels the bindings you wound so tightly around your chest, undoes the braid of a spine that stemmed down your back in their hearts lies their true intentions and there they will only remain viciously still as they speak ill of you through deafening nothings here: take the dagger, grip it well, put it to good use. let the words dribble out like sap in the carvings you craft in the trunk of the family tree; tradition gave you nothing. ✱✱✱
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