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What’s for dinner? he says.
Your favorite, same as last night.
What did you make for yourself, he asks, tucking into the spaghetti she’ll have nothing to do with.
Don’t worry about me, she says. There’s a cage in my flesh that I’ve never shown you, a hotel of ideas dropping from a window on fire. When I twirl inside it with my arms outstretched, amethysts burst in my veins.
Can’t eat those, he says.
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Stink Eye Magazine 