Again, for no one.
I breathe like crumpling paper,
a sodden feather: the blood in exodus to my head,
blushing pink around my iris, my tongue
is wicker, my skin is bone, you win! With the
gravity of your eyelashes you do
invert me; the in outside withering,
I am a trophy of rigor mortis, eyes wide,
limbs cracked, the dry mouth that longed to speak.
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