the_space_between raze you true flies keep honing in on my middle finger, drawing from a red river parted by pale flesh. first you pierce a knuckle. then the soft space between two hard hinges. you're gone before my eyes can name you, your parting gift a thin mist of spit. i ignore the itch until the swelling subsides, struck by the thought that you know more of my blood's secrets than the mind it feeds. 230929 what's it to you? who go blather from