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18 Little Soldier of Love March, you were just here. Now you’re gone, vanished, on permanent hiatus. A month of rain you were. A month of me strapped to an ottoman in a hotel room, blindfolded, you snapping pictures of me naked, then posting them on Craigslist, asking who wants her now. The ticking of the clock, the chilled steam from your lung machine, the knock on the door, the heavy footsteps, the anonymous canisters of breath exploding on my shoulder, a sweaty palm on my calf, a zipper opening so slowly, each metal notch catching on the ridges of my spine. March, think you can just order room service and leave me bed-tied, a note taped to my clavicle? Every year it’s the same with you: marching muddy footprints through people’s lives, little door with rusty hinges to the forehead opened wide. ...

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