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The Sonnet of Fallen Saints Or The Nights Capillary

i. Desire churns in troves, sugars the insides of my thighs with stars, his face in laminated silver. The tiles heave with the sheer weight of it, this shuddering fever, this grace, this vivacity. Diamelas in the blistering. An iguana in the desert, equipped with fangs and an eye for the dreary. There’s a shiver in the air, a shudder you can almost taste, like just behind your stomach, where the spine lies. And lies so finely it grows a nose. Our bones speaking the language of cryptids, chanting about the lunacy in a veiled chamber of the heart that bleeds into the cornucopia of the moon.

ii. Here’s what takes the cake. Are you ready? Good. I know that I’m bedeviling, but the morning has come and dissolved in your eyes and we’re caught up now in arrays of a blundered youth, youth with her throat exposed & pampered to slit, youth in the form of your body caving over mine like a dream unprepared for waking, like a pill bottle left upturned, like exposed tooth. My rupture, my assailant, this is youth buffering over the telephone wire of death. O’ youth, o’ petrified star! O’ the names you gave me the night the bloodlust settled in and we made love like rain soaked angels. O’ your misery scalps the mountains, your grief, the way we smothered our shadows into the walls. Seduced for surrender. Voices in your head that plead for blood. The way a refugee dreams only of clean water, of bricks that do not explode at the touch, and maybe a warm body at night. How you became the thing you were most afraid of. How you become. How you’re becoming – your mother’s long dead twin.

iii. I guess I always get the short end of the stick. And I know that I’m passive aggressive, I know it’s like I can’t take a hint. I know I’m not meant to keep a boy, that I’m left by the third date, that I’m moronic & contagious. I know, I know. Tell me something new. Tell me that my laugh could bring god to his knees, that the spring sleeps inside my strange body. Tell me lullaby, tell me perseid. Tell me glitter, tell me violence. Hold me up and cradle my boot legged / dirt kissed / water logged / insecurities / the grit of my being.

iv. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He wants to kill me.

v. If love is a prayer, you are the god.

-Jupiter Reed

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