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the myth of white knuckles

i borrowed your words, borrowed your time / laid hands to whatever
i could. i have felt sorrow bound to my ribs and sewn this ghost
(this past, this recollection, the 9th of june) to my bones / in hopes of
that, one day, i will forget. i will forget the taste of honey and ambrosia,
i will forget longer nights, and i will forget those mixtapes labelled,
 

“sweetheart, this is it.”

 

we give each other cigarette burns, thinking this is forever / this is
what we have spent our galaxies, our bodies, our lives searching for.
my throat no longer trembles in your name. instead, my hands shake
for something like violence, something like fear, something like
please take me back, baby. i’m so sorry, i didn’t mean it.

 

a life tended to with sweetness,
nobody told you how cruel we are.






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