Ceiling Fan

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I’m afraid,
But the heat keeps seething in.
It is too hot to turn the fan off.
The blades cut through the air.
Precise.
In rhythm.
The faster it goes
The more I believe it will fall.
Every night I climb in bed,
Every night the same occurring nightmare,
Every night I wait to die.
My eyes close.
And I fear to never wake up.
The ceiling fan falls.
A tangle of red sheets, and the stench of iron.
Sheared through once,
Twice,
Three times.
Every night I wait.
I’m afraid.





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