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Jan 2014
She sets the pistol-like object down,
returns to the wound with a cotton swab,
and fixes a pretty little gem in place.

"$60," she says, and I wince;
not in reaction to the fresh wound,
or my lightened wallet.

But rather at the fact
that no pain can relate to
that of my ******, ruptured heart.
Arvel Azcoe
Written by
Arvel Azcoe  Chicago
(Chicago)   
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