Lacking heat, I line my ribs with decorative votives, light them, and forget to say a prayer. A service of lips reading words that slide away like the difference between beeswax and paraffin. Somewhere above my kidneys, I create faith from drips of wax, chant the litany of internal organs, let flame burn out my bones. Let’s make cups of tea for the sacrament of procrastination: it is fully a list of tasks and fully a list of daydreams. Place checkmarks under my tongue. My love, tell my spine how it knows when I have done enough to feel safe.
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