endurance.

her mind is a chaos
of conscious and
unconscious streams.
they do not collude or collide,
but mesh and push
and jockey and dream;
and slip by swiftly.
she grasps the words
only momentarily.

sweet relief
of the bright,
sweet, scarlet plasma.
“natural and mine,” she screams,
“you can’t touch it.”
you could run
the marathon
with blood
dripping from my thighs.

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