does my hand prickle like
needles in a sterile room
pretend like I’m placing my cold fingers
between each follicle

spinal bends

every piece of you stretched
beyond the hook end of a bungee cord
scrapes on the way back this time
down your throat you gag me back up
cold hands on your insides it seems
unfurl--knees knock each other
brace for the heart-outside kind of
limp existence