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I bow until my spine forgets its name. The words I offer bruise before they reach you. Small prayers dropping dead at the foot of the throne.
The pawns lift me gently, carrying me through corridors i have memorized. I know how you move. The hitch in your mercy, the practiced pause. You know how I think. How I split myself open just to see if youre inside.
I forgot the importance of light, it is such a thin thing. Have I noticed its importance soon enough? The dark is a mouth and it knows me and it eats slowly. Like it wants me to stay.
None of the sentences I stitch are mine. I borrow them from graves, warm mouths, from women who learned silence. I quilt them together with shaking hands, drape them over the hollow where my voice used to live.
What spills out goes straight to the drains, runoff for the vermin to lick clean. They recognize devotion when they taste it. I bare my neck like a promise.
It doesnt matter