I have squirreled words
hiding them in overstuffed cheeks
until my throat betrayed me
and spat them back
leaving them sticky on my chin before they fall
and puddle at my feet.

I have pinched flesh
using well-worn fingertips
until my hands crimped and cramped
and all that was left
were prune-hued welts
where I wanted scars of my name.

I have kicked out
painting my feet with hair damped in oil
but my heels have not been dipped
in anything more than clay
and the carefully placed footprints
disappeared with the tide.

I have even stashed my heart
leaving a crumb trail of words
to find it again some day
but the lust of the huntsman
made him bring it back
only slightly bruised.

And so here I lie
feverish with this longing
and the only weapon I have left
is a flask of numbness
I wear around my neck
like a charm.

Dina Honour is an American writer living in Copenhagen, Denmark, with her husband, two sons and one nearly completed novel. Her non-fiction, short fiction and poetry have been featured in Paste Magazine, Hippocampus Magazine, Typehouse Literary Magazine, Scary Mommy and Eunoia Review, among others. She blogs at Wine and Cheese (Doodles). Find her there or on Twitter: @DinaHonour.

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