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Oct 2011
there is blood and grime and rust already
in my backyard and on my hands.
the unlucky baby birds that fall down during june
into my over-chlorinated swimming pool
are ironic.
there are yellow flowers in my garden that i used to take pictures of
before i grew
and love became a hole
waiting to be filled.
and men
and life became predictable as windchimes.
i fell
into all the cracks.
Alysha Marie
Written by
Alysha Marie  LA
   PJ Poesy
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