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Pages

He journaled in her skin.
Years of letters and crumpled notes.
Shuffled pages. Out of order.
Sort and stitch her into a story.
Bound with a red thread, a skein of vein.

Paper burns when put to the match,
but fire can’t erase the written.
Words still have been read.

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Edges

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Drawers of a memory’s bones,
sea shell geodes, sparkling, but not for us, and certainly not to please you.

A well oiled rainbow dancing up a horses woven neck,
trying to dig to you, dig to find treasures, to rebury parts of her for you to
find along your path.

Furred minerals, waxy skinned rocks, carve flesh away to strip-mine her hurts.

Stroke the pet sphinx till she purrs you truths, and remember,
she used to be just a girl, too.

Now she’s made of plastic pony bodies, nylon hair, diary pages and vellum wings.

She’ll claw at you and dig, burrow in your chest,
lock herself in your well oiled drawers, swallow the key and
scrape at your walls with nails of opal and cheap glitter.

You’ve grown lean and the edges you seek are now in your own bones,
sharpened by acetone winds.

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