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Who Didnít Know That It Could Go This Far? We made angels in the snow, and you just stayed in the mold you made, your fantasy open for anyone to read. Now itís morning, too early for the sun, the world outside glowing pale blue, your angel waiting for the day. On my bed, on your knees, heels pressed into the curve of your ass, blindfolded, hands bound by a chain hanging from the ceiling and raised over your breasts, brown nipples pointing at the cold. Suspended in the basement with hooks pulling, stretching your flesh, holding you off the floor, you told me your wish to fly, to grow wings and never have to come back down. I push your hair aside, run the point of the hook over your spine, shoulder blades, back side of your rib cage, across familiar holes, the geography of our love. I carve places for your wings to grow-- two fresh holes on either side the line of bone, the steel curving in, pulling out-- you suck in air, voice arching like your back, as wings spread out, red, wet, shiny, across white skin like blood in the snow.
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