I deal with a heart that I did not break, but I make use of it by lathering my body in its admirable puffs of blood. My pours, with their arms spread wide, welcome the sensual stickiness into their depths, curdling it there like milk. So now everything sticks to me, everything I touch, smell, see and feel becomes part of this mess that I cannot shake off, this goo, this waste, this armor I continuously coat myself in.












