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I know a woman

who is existing in parallels,

yawning away the days

in a bone yard.

she shapeshifts

in the rain, she

swallows compliments

to thicken her lackluster skin.

I keep her under my tongue,

I keep her beneath the nails

on each broken index finger

and she is a trigger

I threaten to pull

with every aching silent wonder

that dresses me in starlight.

she comes up for air as often as a fish;

I am putting her to bed with dreams.

in secret I am heeding

her advice, because

our hands are the hands

that shift the universe.

and I’ve learned how

to sew to hide the damage,

maybe even to pretend

I don’t need any of this.

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