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On Monday, I will rent a room
in the blue parts of some avenue,
in a town where no one
knows where I had been;
just a filthy car with 
a dirtier driver within.

I will run a shower to clear
my head of its shouting
and I think of how
my body is just made for fighting
or fucking, or being fucked;
a shape of bones, tubes and holes
that always needs water
to wash out its bruised hollows.

Sometimes I just lie,
lie unmoving in the bed
that smells like no one.
I disconnect from the sounds
of my body’s own living,
the feel of its karmic aching,
to be blind, dead and dumb.

I avoid remembering, if I can
how you softened, then left me
like an absolved sin
and the memory of him -
his unkindly smell and weight
as he pressed himself into me
night after night, 
penetrating even my dreams.

I try to avoid everything…
Everything, especially me.

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