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Feb 2017
Trees catch fire much easier
in this winter of my soul.
I set various limbs alight,
these extensions of myself
smolder,
crumble
beneath gasoline words
and flint fingertips
until all that remains are skeletal outlines
of what was
and what you used to be.

Toxic fumes hover in particles between us --
evidence of my existence,
the state of my massacre
of us
Written by
Anna Skinner
253
   S Olson and FraisDeLaFerme
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