Beating

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I knew it intimately
The way blood seeped in the cracks
Of pearled skin on the backs of my hands
You spoke ultimately
In between breaths of urgency

A circadian rhythm of an internal clock
The second-hand waving, brushing
Passing the numbers before
The tick changes to shrieking, grinding,
bloody striking
You, change, a circadian beat.

Brown thread for a black burned couch
You squint small to find the hole
In the needle.
Shouting
A confirmation of creating
The false foundation of affection.
The thread weak, shreds
What happens when thick blood falls from palms
On fabric, and seeps.

2015
Quarters in a bubblegum machine
Yellow flavor never spiraled down
I, disposable, urgent
A lack of intimate, ultimate    
Beats.






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