Dear B,

Jennifer Militello

This black trance where I lie like a cat, these arrows living naked in the after of my hands. Such resonance tempers the dark. I fever with impossibility. I fiddle with the antithesis of love. What lies in me is an armored starvation: I cringe at night. I go wild and pathological, schizophrenic as fire. The hiss you hear is my desire. I live on what exists before me, and I thrive. Nothing amounts to much. There are many of us, shaped brazen in the dark. Limbs bereft of significance. Visions within us weighing our hearts. Careless with the stampede in me, bleeding freely from the mouth, bellowing the anything down, risk practices taking my fingers delicately in its teeth. To kill me while I sleep. To sin differently. To kiss the hand of fate. Mute movements door my hands. Numb atoms dust my lovely death.