your-worst-nightmare

Every year postmen grumble. Their bellies ache as they tread miles for love that is not handed out to me. Three wolves howl and I remember how they tore my skin to black leather belts and let bristled arrows take a direct route through freezer doors that lead to arteries. They take the backwards line to my heart. A layer of me climbs out of the frame. Every February 14th, fat spreads over jeans-edges and expanding flesh jumps from under bra straps. I twist through bicycle spokes, my organs ripple and rise as they say -- 'Oh honey, when did the floorboards begin to hack at your joints? we had no idea rust sometimes ga