Fever

The memory of last night spreads itself on my bed,
Thinly: a sheet between the pillow and my head
Crumpling itself beneath the weight of thoughts.
Curling up into a lump of discarded moments, scratches of scribbles of empty words.
The creases crawl from the hours long gone
to trace a map that slices and cuts the skin on my nape.
The memory of your blank eyes claws a path that trickles from my spine
to the small of my back to the ends of my thighs to the soles of my feet.
I do not bleed.

Only, I am drained
Bit by bit by bit by bit

By blood, by skin,
by love, by soul.

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