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I keep all my lovers in a drawstring bag,
The kind you put dead men’s knuckles in.
If I loosened the string and upended the canvas, they’d all come tumbling out in a tangle
Of limbs, tarnished metal, scuffed shoes, half-cooked apologies.
Little squeaks of rage come from the bag when I rattle it.
They’re cramped in there, and more get tossed in all the time.
There’s never enough beer to go around.
“We didn’t ask for this,” one says, and I say shut up
Shut the fuck up.
No. You’re staying in there, where you can’t hurt anyone.
And when I learn how to encase a man in amber, you’ll be the prettiest fossil there ever was.
6 January, 2022
Auzin is a writer from the Pacific Northwest who strings words together because there are creations inside her which clamor to get out. She has published with Hecate Magazine, Rogue Agent Journal, and The Winnow Magazine. She is the Managing Editor at Hecate Magazine and her work can be found at byauzin.com.
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