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She was an art,
but she wasn't the type
you'd find in museums
or the type that would
make you feel profound things
in your chest.

She was an art
tucked in hidden pockets
of a faded yellow dress.
She was an art,

slowly sketching herself
out of existence.
How so
How can we
How do those words come out
How do we not choke on our own words
Why doesn't make it make us breathless
Why doesn't it  rip our vocal cords
How do we have the strength to cuss
How do we have the guts to say such words to threaten others like a vocational
How is our tongue able to move to give someone pain
How do we grow up to make others shed pain and tears just by word?
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