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Ananke
In a room on the edge of the desert
I shed my skin
and the skin under the skin
and all the bones that keep me bound
to this place.
​
Start over, tell it again.
​
In a room on the edge of the desert
I shed my skin
and catch blood between the cracks
of my scales.
There is no light in the sky.
​
Again, now.
​
In a room on the edge of the desert
I shed my skin
and see the clouds gleaming in a tight,
teasing sort of way,
twinkling like laughing,
always moving on and on.
Things do not stop here.
Things do not know how to stop.
​
Again.
​
In a room on the edge of the desert
I shed my skin
and ask questions:
At what time will the sun rise?
Why do I do
before I can think of what doing means?
How does it feel
to have a mother?
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