"I wish I could write my feelings on the wings of a blue butterfly," she said. "And then follow it around the room with a burning candle or a lighter until I burn it to a crumpling crisp. I would write about you on those wings, of course. I would go to sleep dressed in funeral attire, hiding your solar plexus between my legs, your skull between my breasts, my tongue circling around and around over and over again inside your orbits.
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