March 19, 2012
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His fingers were always ferocious,
A nest of tangled thorns that were always too hungry.
He touches my body like its braille,
As if caressing was the only language he understands.

I curl like an armadillo,
My arms tight around my torso.
He whispers death-threats in my ear,
As if they are sweet nothings.

On my hands and knees,
I am scrubbing his shadow from my skin.
But his memory is embedded in my pores,
Never to be

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