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I remember roadtrips in our car. I would lay down on my mother, looking for space.


To fit my neck and head in any of her body angles.


To feel my insides. My muscles, organs and bones being exactly where they were meant to.


My skin acting velvet, my bones gears, and my organs scrutable tissue. Knowing the body’s reason for being.


Bones show for a moment they are not hard, dry and compact. They can exhale. Pleasure and shiver.


They recognise rupture. Hatred for the gathering.


The sore of those solids inside. The desire of mashing. Of powder. Of undoing


That’s how I meet my bones.

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