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Her Railroad Tracks

With the blade as her pencil,
she draws
red railroad tracks
on her wrists,
her way of whistling her engine
silently.
I hear her call
and yet I turn away,
awkward and ashamed,
as I change the locks
of the tin can in my chest
where my own ghosts reside.
My mouth successfully stitched,
I watch her unravel
under the burden of
parents with blind eyes and preoccupied lives.
Those railroad tracks
at the side of her arm
are not mine
to point out.





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