up the spine of this already-spent shell. I walk
over frozen ponds, the shallows there
filled with bodies I have left behind:
I press my white palms up to the ice where
the soles of my feet pass over.
I climb mountains built of my bones,
grabbing the knobs of my hips for
purchase, finding footholds in my own
open mouth, jaw askew, emptied eyes. I
wade through the swamps of my old
blood, slipping on old skin, pushing through
past selves. I walk over my own grave
dragging my headstone a few feet farther.
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