This is girlhood: dreams of killing, hoping to exhume my own body. On the best nights, I plant seeds along the slaughterhouse floor while blood spill dries like ink. Pig-like shapes swing heavy from the ceiling; lulling heads make clouds. Legs turn to evergreens. Finally flaccid cocks roll up cold bare thighs like gentle snow against a mountainside. A forest comes from this, new growth springs from the dirt. My sky opens, blue and light.
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