The Friend

 We sat across the table.

he said, cut off your hands.

they are always poking at things.

they might touch me.

I said yes.


Food grew cold on the table.

he said, burn your body.

it is not clean and smells like sex.

it rubs my mind sore.

I said yes.


I love you, I said.

That's very nice, he said
I like to be loved,
that makes me happy.

Have you cut off your hands yet?

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