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SW Dec 2014
Inhale, Exhale, Repeat.
Close your bright eyes, they say too much.
Don’t speak, you can’t change anything.
Inhale, Exhale, Repeat. As if you are sleeping.

Stretch your body as far as you can.
Make it bigger, longer,
like you have spent your life in a smaller man’s coffin.

Be still.
Don’t blink, don’t part your trembling lips, don’t move your toe three quarters of an inch.
Be still.

Scream. LOUDER. Softer.
Scream as high as you can. Louder. You have to scream to save your life. SCREAM.

Stop.
Don’t Speak. You can’t change anything.

Look into your eyes in the mirror.
Keep looking, you can’t back down.
Don’t blink, keep looking.
Keep looking.

Blink. Blink again.
More. Faster.
Blink until you can’t see anything anymore
until you are blind

Stop.
Clench your fists. Grit your teeth. Flex your muscles.
Your arms, your legs, your toes.
Make your body tight.
Tight.
Tight.

Release.
Melt.
Collapse.
Be liquid.
Don’t speak, you can’t change anything.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
I remember you like a famous brachiosaur, ensconced in the terrible street lamps of west county apartment block row. That swaying bronze gate to your three flat two room apartment. Skinny legs for the couch, the backroom bedroom, and the bunk beds in the master suite. We studded me for excellent squeeze; one trident pull switching time against a baited lock. "I'll swallow you whole," you brushed off into my ear while I passed your cheek with my lips, braising your skin with dew drops of our rushes and sweat. Even for April this was alright. Your brother had already moved out, and listening to Hall and Oates and going fishing was all you wanted to do. So I made us two root beer floats with Almond Milk ice cream, and settled into you for five hours and forty-five minutes. It was before 5:00a.m. when you turned to the night and spilled the last ounces of your naked body out to me beneath the satin sheets. I pressed my lips hard against your nose and whispered I'd be leaving soon. Still I do not recall if I woke you when I left, but I remember that next day when you questioned if I had.
Written for Elizabeth Huff

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