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Holding the beating heart of an animal takes guts.

For one, because it's own guts are spilled at your feet,

and the sickly stench rises

the way bubbles rise in a bath,

or a plugged up sink.

 

You watch blood spill over your fingertips,

splashing onto the weathered toes of your favorite Converse shoes, then dribble deliberately into the dirt.

 

And there's no more warmth.

 

Just the metallic reek of death

that crawls along your skin

and the slick sheen of life that coats your hands

like your mother's dish soap did

during after dinner clean up.

 

God, you wish there was dish soap.

 

But no, this requires a different kind of cleansing.




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