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The Dybbuk
Poems
Jul 2020
Her Hold on My Aorta
I breathe love through my lungs,
where she lives,
in the Olivialvioli.
Sometimes,
she squeezes, and I bleed faster.
"I'm not bleeding," I say.
There is no feeling in my fingers.
Part of me knows I am going to die,
but I'm too afraid to breathe in.
Written by
The Dybbuk
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