egg shells

you incubate inside me. or i thought you did, but you were really just unfertilized, waiting for my mouth to take you in. i settle over you to keep you warm through the chilly nights. you settle over me like layer after layer of plastic wrap. we lay next to each other, cold. suffocating. i want you to turn the light off but then i won’t be able to see what you do with your hands. what they will be holding: a knife, a hammer, a frying pan. make me a story. make me a story of a girl and a boy where only one of them falls in love and you have to guess which one. skip to the last page. i think of hearts being factory-farmed, each one reduced to a matter of expendiency, which heart is the biggest, which heart has the richest yolk. which can be digested most easily. this is not the story i wanted to tell, but what happens, happens, or does it? put my heart in a carton but close it, don’t say it’s cracked. we lay in bed and our bodies are perfect in their unblemished whiteness beneath the fluorescent lamp. i want you to turn off the light. we lay there silent, thin-shelled and so easily broken. you don’t turn off the light.


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