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My Darling,
hunt me a soul,
a doomed soul,
a damned soul.

I shall wait and weep,
hiding the plumb crescents
bruising underneath my eyes
until you return to me.

You have promised me a soul
with which to dry this messy leak-ing
steadily creep-ing
from eyelids clamped shut.

The other day, you told me I looked
a little dead around the eyes, Dear,
so the technical term for the monstrosity
dampening my face would be
dead tears.

Darling, isn’t it obvious?
No ordinary tissues will do.



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MckayThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. said...
Jun. 19, 2013 at 2:00 pm
This was just the poem I had to read today. I'm feeling this exact same way. Was it destiny that brought me here today of all days to your poem? Or irony? Or some conspiracy? Either way, I enjoyed reading this poem. I like how you separated the "-ing" in some of the words. And how you answer your own rhetorical questions. And the first stanza is my favorite of the whole poem. 
 
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