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the dead bat souls of kirsty warmeir

kirsty warmeir braided her hair into lopsided snarls

ignoring the deep shards of crystal sliding into the strands

kirsty warmeir threw her hands under the unrepentant sobs of the faucet's greedy snout

washing and washing until tears of red cracked through scabby ravines

kirsty warmeir scuffed her face with dead bat souls and nomadic stains of settled stop signs praying for the dead bat souls to come back and

they didn't come.

no one loved kirsty warmeir.




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