The skin 
of fruit, glowing 
under its neural membrane: 
how one's mouth closes 
around the webbed strings, 
the casing, the pulp— 
It isn't the knife
that is the enemy.

I had been saying
for some time
that we cannot choose
what to feel. None of it,
all of it: one burns
just as fiercely
as the other. All
of it is ours.

What goes through you
as a great hurt—
is it indistinguishable
from other stylets
that found their way
beneath your skin?
Sharps, they're called.
Needles. A catheter. 
A probe. Something 
that knows exactly where
you are most tender. 

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