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I am hiding all my feathers flaked in white and smolder to avoid any confusion.  

I am lying in wait with my chest cavity opening and closing for rapid reversal.

I keep it confidential how I blanch my limbs a little like green beans. 

I have to be discrete being this farmhouse and handcrafted.  

I am as covert as tin foil wrapping up a goal post. 

I am as concealed as a housewife preparing for her cryogenic chamber. 

For now, I live in a mausoleum lined with pink satin and scented towelettes.

In my cellar, I am just a girl in a pinafore driven by an imaginary force to incessant recitations.

In my crypt, I imagine a man I know comes in five speeds and various patterns.  

There is something about being stowed away in someone's heart like an insect dipped in amber.

There is something to keeping secrets by eating them like gladiolas. 

It is all cloak-and-dagger behind-the-scenes under the back stairwell.  

It is like waiting for your legs to monetize this holiday season in gladiator chunk sandals.  

I guess that's why I like to camouflage myself in endives and pine nuts. 

Or why I shroud my actions in sweet chemicals to feel like I'm ascending.

I suspect I've been deeply lost in the pixie coat since I wore it once in West Village.  

One day I will roll back the stone to see why all the girls have thrown away their heels and taken

to the pastures. 

It is no secret I want to leave the catacombs to their immense urns and triumphant columns.

The earthenware has been getting to me and it is stealth--my mission to teleport to the future

where I can live in prebiotic eye sheets forever. 

I want to leave my miserable tongue to soak in nitrous oxide.  

I imagine my arms painted white as I dive into a mosh pit.  

I imagine my lips ultra-sheer as I get messy in an alley. 

I think it is possible that I can go out like a postcard sent from paradise.  

I want to gather up all the limbs I've neglected and turn them straight into glimmer.

Stevie Belchak

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