A bottle with a cork wedged into it's opening, that's what you were. Closed as tight as the lip of the lid could close,









bent.
And you with your sealed vault, mocking as it may be, it took me up, a liquid forming to whatever shape it loosely could. And you put the flame underneath every last inch, and I felt it. I felt it.
Butane pasteurization, I don't understand. Where is the flint, that shot the spark, into my arms and the bends of each hand?
Pressure application, and every inch of life that's tainted falls away or melts into something smaller, something harder to find,
Harder to see
harder to kill.


But still there.
Bleach me white, every inch of me, until I am glowing so, as to think I am god herself.
But I am.
White headed, white arm hairs goose bump, goose appendage standing up, milk white skin pouring into whatever shape it loosely can, white mind, blind eyes...



























hands, red.
Purge. Purge.
Pour.
I feel ashamed, lost in the minds version of the truth. Purge, purge. Stand.
The air got to me before you could, turning me stale, turning me sour.
And in the last moments of time, you uncork your hole, allowing me to pour every inch of my blind white self into you,
filling you up.
Emptying myself.
The whole-ist hole, a liquid's felt.