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Original:
A year and two months big, won't you finger- tip sift at the corner of my eyes, follow the crease 'till you feel the tick? Find him escaped out the teeth gapped wide, pushed at the air on the inhale and lost his grip. Run from inside me is what he's done. Willowed liar buzzing through my hair, distracted by the too-ripe sweet beans growing underneath the lace and static of morning breath. Plunders, they are no longer, but the arresting details of a well worn body. Lipstick drawn to soften his frame, his wings punctured and spent, we hear him rifle through the costumes, shuffling feet, he comes to us now to zip him. As an innocent, he gasps and gulps the air above the stove, turned to high, spitting clicks, no cherry bonfire, but I choke on the stem, when all I wanted was a bow. |
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