I. The four parts of my heart thrum a rhythm against the sheath of ice, gripping their cavities, and, in concert, slide through the space where the rib I gave you used to be, leaving a ticklish sensation as they squeeze through. They abandon a residue of slow sadness and frenetic anxiousness in the emptiness. II. My brain. A haze presses upon its folds, exhausts the optic nerve, leaves a rawness behind my eyelids, leaves a soreness where the sclera meets the skull, and draws the eyes wide and weepy, dispatches pieces of static across my scalp and out the hair follicles. III. My limbs, like heavy branches grasp, fumble with the fruits of your sorrow, weighted by a frigid numbness. Gravity drags on weakened joints, until the connective tissue snap, riving arteries and veins, disengaging bone from bone, permitting my arms and legs to disown the thickness of my trunk. IV. I am no longer a whol...
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