I have polar muscles. Ripened in the stony cold of the concrete gallery, I only set them on the shelf to sit until tomorrow, softening.

I’m just that, the ending body. You have no real reason to put your trust in me.

How many times have your asked the question? Your eyes are not. Your hair is not.

Go, further and further away. Hide your face behind desert bushes and piss in the holes round their roots. Be of one fluid.

I think if I want, I act if I want, I am dumb and silent and stupid. You never asked more of me than this, you the fool. You never wanted my shit, the release of my bowels, the understated, quiet collapse of my death. You were happy for me to just continue.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

I leavened you in the dark oven of your childhood bedroom. You told me every secret you knew.

And then you offered your breast to the knife-blade, smiling. This is the best thing you could have done. What more do we have to offer each other? I want someone I care about enough to kill. I want to peel her apart, you, you apart.

The world can’t offer me that.

She never lived, but she calls my name. How fucked am I?

Our bodies are bullets cast for animals that don’t exist.