Your Gulag Eyes at Digging Through the Fat

“I wanted to smell you on my clothes; I wanted your frosted eyelashes to sing. I thought you might have been bleeding, under your feathers. I wanted to probe between the stiff hollow roots, probe with my fingers. Bleeding or not, it hurt to not touch. Bellies full of pins, hands blistering scared…”

Read it here:

Your Gulag Eyes

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