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May 2013
These hands around my throat
are made of air
gripping, sweating ice, grasping

My mouth
a gaping chasm
a humid void
a lip-framed hollow
Drying, dying, tongues are lying
We cannot trust

I feel a sudden urge to hide
I will curl up underneath this desk,
escape the harsh fluorescent lamp
to respite my eyes
to weep and cry
to bring back moisture to this life

And meaning to my words
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