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Autotroph II

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I live on broken wings
and enigmatic sighs
lost pomegranates and
something like tears.
odd dives into third-person
have never been
my virtue.

they tell me I’m a
f---ed-up child and
quite frankly
I agree. for peppermint,
never wintergreen,
seems to satisfy the
pit others enjoy
digging within my heart.

instead I choke
on earrings and thumbtacks
and travel the world in
my sleep. because eyeliner
that runs in constellations
has never stood
as universally as it does
this morning,

gathering in the postulates
of my hazels.
ugh, they whisper.
you weirdo.



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