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The language of pain
I go looking for myself at the witching hour
Honey seeps from my eyes and ears
My fist spins a honey dipper to guide the substance into an old jam jar
Salt crystallizes on my tongue
I wander and discover my own bones
Protruding from cold sand
An earthly mantle—
My shapes are boundless
The moon extends her hand to scoop me into a ceramic bowl
A raven garnishes it with a silky feather
A fire begins to smoke from the core of the moon
It growls and grumbles
A coyote lays down on the edge of a cliff and sniffles
I shriek and the burning eye of the night god consumes my call...
Only to spit it back at me
My bones find flesh and a heartbeat again.
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