New and unedited, sort of kind of.

Killing It 

I killed it, in his words, and really I had left him awe-struck.
I killed it: mastery to the point of murder. I left to buy fruit
And returned to find he hadn’t budged, to find his hand stuck

To his mouth, oh my God, as if I’d plucked a harp string or spun a penny
And the motion had minutely gone on, riveting him.
I left to buy fruit, thinking that would pass for cookery

(it did), and he didn’t budge, the shape of me still mapped out
in the quilt’s terrain, in his free hand, my name the name
of all his thoughts. Such joy should really not be allowed.

All of this my doing, and not a hint of fear. I didn’t once,
For example, tug my cuffs below the wrist. I was saying: look, look
How exposed is the radius, look how easily you’d snap it, as if for fun.

I took my fist to him, all of it my doing, and I buried
My face in his gut, modeled it around me like clay. I filled
His navel with confessions, without a hint of fear. I married

Us in word: I took all of him to heart and told him how it hurt
To keep him there. And I married us in blood: we
Bit each other’s fingernails to keep from scratching. And I married

Us in deed: I hadn’t expected to strip my skin off and spread it across
The window so he’d see all of me at once. He stayed and watched me
And we cut up a mango. I hadn’t expected it to be like this.

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