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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required It is only when you leave at the end of the day or slip, quietly, out the doorway, that my body remembers it has lungs - as if air itself had been afraid to enter in your presence. My breath returns reluctantly, not all at one, but in hesitant increments, like something fear creeping back into a clearing after the forest had been fired through. But you are the definition of love to me. Strange. When you are present, I am no longer contained by myself. It is as if invisible contact blooms everywhere at once - not hands, exactly, but the weight of something that will not release, the kind of suffocation that clings to the bone. A thin, electric pressure threading itself through the seams of me: wrists, ribs, the soft hinge of my throat - every place meant to keep me whole learning how easily it can come apart. There is no single point of contact - only an insistence, a disturbed touch that leaves me frozen inside myself. My hands tremble. Then my knees begin to betray me leading me toward collapse. The rest follows - not falling exactly, just quietly loosening from itself. My whole body rattles apart like a cupboard full of bones, and the shaking grows violent. Something inside me is clawing for a way out. Perhaps a demon. Perhaps your shadow stitched somewhere into my lungs. When it tears loose it steals the air with it. I fall open. A husk. A burnt-out house still smelling of smoke. You do not mean to hurt me. I know this. I do not see you the way I see them. They are wolves. Their teeth are simple. Their hunger is honest. They tear, and it is finished. But you— you are a dog who knows my voice. You sit beside me. You wag your tail. You rest your head in my lap before you bite. And that kindness— that small warm trust— pushes the teeth deeper than any wolf ever could. A pack would kill me quickly. But you return. You circle back through the ruins. You lie beside the body you made of me after clawing me apart, as if guarding it. And when you leave the air grows gentle again. The walls stop breathing. But somewhere inside me your teeth remain— small white ghosts buried in the bone. I have learned the shape of your damage so well I mistake it for home. And I go back— every time— on purpose. Strange.
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