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Dec 2012
I’m brandishing a naked sword
I don’t know how to hold it
The hilt is cold from rain
I’ve forgotten the time
I cut the tips of my fingers
My eyes are closed
I bleed into my drink
I drink it down whole
I frown when it’s empty
When I awake
The door is closed
Her shoes are gone.
Michael Sinclaire
Written by
Michael Sinclaire
412
 
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