Sometime late January,
you spent the night with a woman
watching the moon grow.
Come take me in my own abattoir.
I said,
I’m red-hot and full of other people.
I had created a dalliant Beirut  in my bed
to occupy us.
You were outside in a corduroy jacket that smelled like me
counting her freckles as stars
and I  was slicing the inside of someone’s arm
to crawl inside for warmth and wait for us
to duel it out in the morning;
I was biting the inside of my cheek to taste
victory and she was on top of you,
showing you.

I had been waiting to show you
self immolation,
you had been waiting with
kerosene and some promises
to hold my ashes



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