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I like the way your skin curves around your sharp bones. You love me, don’t you? Unfolding beneath me like a gift. At least, you are satisfied by me. Flesh tight around your throat. You are so beautiful —They must always tell you that— So fragile. Something is always breaking in you. You want me to crush your skin between my teeth While you scream like a symphony of strings Because you always have to be the saint, & you know I hate the way you cry. Does it hurt? Being so open with me? Blooming on my bed like a flower? At most, you are ruined. I must have loved you once. I can’t remember now.
S.R. Nickoloff Warren (she/they) is a 22-year-old writer living in Brooklyn, New York. Their work has been published in Room to Grow, Quarantine Content, Honeysuckle Media, and Letting Go: A Community Zine—the last of which has raised over $1,000 for abortion resources. When they’re not writing, S.R. enjoys reading and rock climbing. You can learn more about S.R. Nickoloff Warren’s at srnickoloffwarren