rachel dillon red@mit.edu 37879 thirty seven thousand eight hundred and seventy nine shards of broken glass from the last time you kicked my ass and i said it was okay and you could use your soul to destroy mine the glass is my heart torn apart standing solely loneliness is death so i cling as we swing round and round and round like a cassette rewound to the part where you whip me mercilessly eighty-two, eighty-three, sing the straps across my back from red to blue to black to bleeding my heart is bleeding in shards for the lack of you your absence is stealing my ability to feel itÕs a chloroform hell with you performing surgery quintuple glassy bypass, steel eyed and never tired you chop in tiny pieces at the essence of my self and i donÕt even know you i only know what you do to me subconsciously with your air of apathy and tree-trunk stoicism a fearful green is your pallor, and i donÕt have the valor to approach you and steal the fruits of my labor thereÕs no manual for this, and i wonÕt drive automatic because the radio is static like your face stoic, and knowing more than you let on but not feeling the whip in one hand as the other caresses and cleans up the mess of my pooling blood razor sharp cats eyes cutting at my neck every moment you reject me Š and i accept the needles stabbed into my eyes in the hope that i wonÕt have to see you leave and the leaves will never fall Š itÕs not about eloping itÕs about understanding, and letting me know you know ninety. ninety-one. ninety-two. i would never do it to you because you love to be lonely Š you donÕt need my homely smile or the homily i try to give that i have to give to live, love, canÕt you understand me? you tell me that youÕd have died without me now youÕre dying with me instead saying iÕm like lead when youÕre like bismuth a labyrinth, ununderstandable, inreprimandable i canÕt backhand you when iÕm wearing your handcuffs one hundred thirty six. one hundred thirty seven. iÕd see you in heaven if we werenÕt going to hell iÕd like to go together with your warmth in my arms protecting me from harm except that which you dole across my chest Š i understand why you hate me i just donÕt know how to make it stop without stopping the sound of your voice in the back of my mind, echoing dimly a grim smile comes across my face one hundred fifty nine, and i feel just fine with your eyes boring holes in the soles of my feet it will heal, and if not i can wheel around like your liege, like your child, like your slave i donÕt care if you withhold air as long as i can breathe whatÕs not good enough for you Š isnÕt that what i already do? you get the trimmings while iÕm skimming for insects in the pool in which your swimming and showing off your perfect form giving me an inner storm of self-rejection and bringing me back to the whip and your gaze and my back splayed. thirty seven thousand eight hundred and seventy nine times have you cracked me and i am still fine anesthetized by pain i remain in your arms love-hate is great compared to an empty bed fill my head with your dark recriminations as long as i can contemplate your eyes lighting me afire while you burn me at the stake itÕs a dark image form the dark ages do you feel like one of the sages? i feel vaguely medieval i feel sporadic... i feel drained... as you turn away staring at him i feel all the pain... thirty seven thousand eight hundred and seventy nine times worse than before i am the whore, but somehow i donÕt feel dirty... just alone.