You were having sex with me. Face down in mattress protector. All cotton-nostril slowness and that life force dripping out. There’s a small speaker in the ceiling and your music is made of tiny beads. A door opens on a world of raw flesh. Step outside, I said. You’re fine, it’s fine here. Everyone is at it. The sky will be very very bright at first, but after an adjustment period your muscles will loosen and you will walk quickly, as I do. The animals know how to live. There is nothing wrong, nothing. Anything wrong is an opportunity to progress. We live in factories. I mirror you, like the way the glass door fell and a shard clutched into the reverse of my tights and I pulled it out and was glad it was me it had happened to and not any of them. It was always me, and it always would be, that’s the thing. We are so beautiful at the seams. Where the two pieces join to become this larger idea.

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​Note: The title is taken from “The Turning of Our Bones” by Arab Strap.