I could not tell our story yet.

I had to let it sit. Let it spoil

in the fridge like old milk.

I needed it to dry, to crust,

to taste what we are made of.

I wanted to read our veins

on the back of a carton.

Piece together what made me sick,

the percentages, the intake. The colors.

The texture of rot.

And when the smell was too much,

the dry heaving too dangerous,

I’d pour the poison into a cup

and hold it to the light.

Ah, that’s what did it.

Come now, let me tell

you about how we grow.

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