lying // s. mardon
sometimes my heart doesn’t beat. i make you press your fingers to my wrist, my neck; then one palm over my chest and the other pressing on the soft skin inside my thigh and you say ‘here it is, here, how can you not feel your own pulse?’. i tell you to try again and take, and take, and take. the blood is rushing now. ‘can you feel it yet?’ ‘no. start over.’