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Memento decapitatio (clarity as a heat map [a poem])

Updated: 2 days ago

She was skiing down a slope one winter when

Eleven dwarves disappeared from a nearby cabin

The tea was no longer hot but lukewarm, creamy, and sweet, and the sweater empty

He had not died, she had not forgotten to keep measuring the pain she caused over and over, the shape was a circle, still swerving. She hadn't gotten to writing overwrought sentences in her journal that morning but yes every other and the idea of them being read ached like embers in her chest as it often did, not for emotional but aesthetic reasons

She sped through snow feeling like she knew that one day the reason would become emotion so acute that she'd stretch her fingers out towards a carving knife but never reach—if I were to get my nails done today for the first time in a decade what color would I pick? Cherries

Conflict in the center of a pit, teeth breaking in frustration towards a taste

Gratifying to feel her tongue freezing, preserving the wisdom from all the soil she had licked from behind the ears of you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you, making you all dirtier in the process, and ah, to no longer be that yawning pleasureless girl, to be a woman, green as a pine ever eager to shed every single one of her needles all at once but no longer (and herein the difference) knowing what it means to leave; the desire itself for a dissolution into love enacting a final living remembrance of the worshipping gesture of two calloused hands behind her neck softly, around it, the pain

To be hated is to be loved

To be hacked

Down a mountain so white it’s only visible as translucent crimson streaks, deescalation at last as it gets so swooshed-past by time that it phases into the fresh glory of formlessness, and then the image of a claw reveals through its quiver the nature of the surface on which it is reflected: just a puddle in one of Earth’s belly buttons, no longer hot but lukewarm, and I know you remember the rest


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