It is nice to be seen, after all. Even if not for what I am.
An underrated skinspot imo—so fleshy and erotic without the obviousness of tits and ass.
Beside the nation, there is the / Body.
Beyond the / Border, there is a / Body of water.
Besides the / Blood, there is the heart / Beating.
I have never been able to afford a dress that did not smell like death. /
Even the moths lust for cashmere instead of polyester.
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At night I think about what happens after. Where the body goes. When you return this body, I think you are to make a list of all the strange wears and tears it has weathered. Perhaps an instructional record for engineers on how to mend this sheath for the next user. Or for research on how to improve our bodies, so that the next models will not experience the same ailments.
I couldn’t sleep, so I thought about the life I might have had. The man who might have loved me, tied his future with mine. The books I could have published. The places I would have visited. I said goodbye to all of them, each and every possibility, the husband I’d never hold, the stories I’d never see, the countries I’d never cultivate. Bright spots reduced to errant shadows, I loved them. Then I let them go in my heart.