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Feb 2015
I will write my secrets upon petals
and rip them up, bury the shreds
in the hallows of my ribs, and ****
your seeds of doubt in the process.
I will sleep till spring, so that when
I awake, maybe something besides
trouble will finally
bloom. Its heavy, my skin
soaked with stress
the nerves in my spine have electrified
and now my lungs are smoking
and crackling like a burnt fuse
and my heart ticks down
to the explosion.
I found this scrawled on a scrap of paper from late last year.
Ivy Swolf
Written by
Ivy Swolf
296
   atlas and Realeboga M
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