We’re getting thin to thin out a less generous conclusion of a heart hardened. We’re exposing an exposé: milky faults, chalk bone, lacy anatomy. We’re inspecting our abdomens. We’re thinking on economy. We’re petitioning not to lag in this matter where hearts get smaller. We’re imploring ladyslippers to be more real. We’re telling half-truths in our negligees. We’re concealing our moonmake while wondering if Witch Baby truly loves Shy Cop. We’re fashioning ourselves women in danger. We’re aiming our arms: Bang! We’re covered in star guts. We’re undressing like men in conflict. We’re reassessing the eyebrow situation. We are erring and erring on the side of don’t be an insect. We’re having second thoughts about the marriage of Witch Baby. We’re thinking surgically, blooming precisely. We’re waiting for night to break open, for moonboats to scar the water. We’re tucking our wings into our jackets. We’re parting the gray lake like dessert knives. We’re getting so sure of it. We are getting certain we will find exactly what we came here for.