Dear Alice

Your veins.

It’s supposed to be a curse.

Why, then, does everything seem more alive when you’re defective?  You shudder and wretch, and you make them cry blood, but you are so powerful.  I can’t touch that.  No one can touch you.  And you fight against the ones that played with your DNA, but you’re still so beautiful.

I will NEVER be what you are.

You thanked him for making you human, but you were never ordinary to begin with.  You’ve always been…defiant.  A red dress, a leather jacket to ward off the cold, but the chill is from the virus coursing through you.

I’ve never wanted to be so sick.

Can I be diseased like you?

Because I’m so broken, so easy to flatten and press into a cage.

The cage is frightened of you.

Tokyo or Suburbia, New York or sheets of ice.  Nothing can stop you.  You make massacre out of your chains, and you still sigh when he tells you it’s not over.  It may never be over, but why would you want it to desist?  You’re magnificent in motion.  I can’t stop thinking about you, replaying your grace.  And this writhing, seething jealousy is going to cannibalize me.  Because I’m not like you.  I’m nothing like you.  And I wish to darkness that I were.

Would you please just
would you please just
please just
infect me?


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