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Mar 2016
I held the pool of her in my hand.
A universe succumbing to its weight.

This smallness, of me, diminutive letters on parchment.

A lens, rupturing itself.

There is no way, no way at all to be, now.

We are committed and forbidden to our own fate. Pale hour.
Hourless East.

You give it what it asks for. You always give it what it asks for.
You collapse. Paper house, conformed for service.

The endless hunger, pleads for you.
A dressless ******* wooden knees.

You think you prefer not to go where you are not wanted.
If that were true, it would be easier to leave your self.  


in a room,

it is a slow dance, and mostly never.
Chelsea Chavez
Written by
Chelsea Chavez  Fairfield, CA
(Fairfield, CA)   
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