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Every name I pull out of my hair is a soft / blow to the spine, decibels for Newtons.
Untitled, despite my want
The rain / tries to remind me that all a cloud is, is collection—and perhaps / I am.
there is a two-inch gap behind my books, / a mouth stuffed with shiny aluminum / packaging
The tree outside the barbershop
was struck down
night, its Siamese
Angels speak from my open wound where the light leaks out and the
blossoms in my mouth
cut my tongue the way needles bled my skin for art...
when I see all I've never been
stern man in white coat tells me I have been coddling my young / that my porcelain children have turned rotten and sickly under my care...
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