By Gloria Mindock

The angels are ripping our
bodies apart. They’re butchering corpses.
Look, we can’t conceal our flesh is dying.
Insects multiply in our blood.
And if this isn’t enough, we can’t
talk about it.
Hands are shaky. We are afraid of
breaking down, becoming weak, and being
killed by pity.
Silence is better.
A slight wound touches us.
We can nourish ourselves with this.

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