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Tonight we sit in the kitchen, a table's distance apart, looking at each other. I hold a small glass jar. She holds a book of matches found in her powder box. We place our tools on the table beneath the low-wattage spotlight. Her eyes turn to perfectly match the lilac paper napkins resting on the crowded countertop. I close my own. I hear the hushed friction of her body against the damp linoleum, the quick breaths of her anticipatory heart, the preparing for the pull of poison. I open my eyes, strike a match, then attach the small lips of the jar to her back--push the kiss into her, and beg for the drag of suffering. She tries to talk; I deepen the kiss. My head feels alive, all my senses too aware. I try to close my eyes again for a more profound concentration-- but such reflexes are not allowed when she is gasping.
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