Literature
laodice.
in summer the ghost of the girl who tried so desperately to hang me
with her own hair comes to me again, her wrists bound tight - a victorian
nightgown, the stretch of the fabric a taste on my teeth i can never forget
( contact allergy: the glue from band-aids sends my skin spitting and hot,
the new cells, grown inside as i was, finally brave enough to fight for air )
she blinks her heavy lashes at me and pulls the heat tight around my ribs.
they bend like a ship on the shore under the slime of greenrot and time,
but they do not break. they are not drowned, not her claim to rebuild with.
( if a ship sinks, and you replace it, is the s
