p.179

His voice is something I could
slip into,
like a nightdress,
or a coma.

When his fingers brush my shoulders,
the feeling lingers.
His touch is a jet lag I can’t quite shake.

Veins have always terrified me,
but at night I find myself tracing the
purple lines on his forearms,
because they remind me of trails on a
map.

I want to know where they lead.

I tell her, “He kills me in the best way.”
I mean, “I’m afraid I’ve already given him the gun.”

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