Sunday 8/09/2009 12:19:00 AM

She bled from her crotch. In pale hysteria's. All volume. No play. She teased the suitcase at the foot of her bed. Other worlds. Hardly waiting for her arrival. A warehouse of fait accompli. In damp pillows under her brow. As she gathered her sticks and stones. To build a fire in the rain.

It's clear enough. The stain on her underwear. The art of a woman. The press of the man. Second-rate Picasso's erupt from her skin. Strangers choke on the meat. Lovers feast on the bones.

Broken heals well enough. Empty is not so fortunate. She knows that I love her. But I don't.

She bleeds. In urgent spasms. She turns red. As the fruit dies in her fist. Permanent scratches in the glass. The world is different now. I see more. And less.

She begs the time machine to stop. But it continues to ignore her.

She says it doesn't hurt. But the future knows different.

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