Abigail, the monster in you is bleeding through your nose.
eye. ears. mouth.
and you are crawling towards me. long pencil like fingers scratching the floor as they surge for my throat in the daylight.
this hospital hallway panics me to "get clean!" - not from sins, but apologies.
then i look at you - coming. seizing in my direction. your blue dress riding past your thigh to expose a slip.
and who exactly made wealth slither?
who put you on your belly - begging?
your sudden flatness frightens me. the pause. the thud. the stiffness.
just a vitruvian woman etched into the pure white linoleum - whose body was never her own. what she wanted or who.
But they, the men - will take your dead body and make you a star.
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