If you want Hyacinth to bloom for the
second time, you must cut her. She loves
like a carnivore. Make her feel what it is
like to be chosen second. When she cries,
her tears flow down cheekbones that curve
like a shell, like a mistake in the highway.
She picks up the phone, and a voice, deep
as a ravine on the other end whispers,
“Be dead and rise from death.” After these
calls, her sleep turns to ash. She rubs it over
her lips, breastbone, those smooth white
thighs she thought were so desirable. In the
morning, she will bloom. Scarlet, sapphire,
salmon. There will always be another cut.
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