I hold these words
on my lungs,
and, while it hurts,
I still try
to talk, but not
by speaking—
instead, I cower
and type, using
keys to lock
myself away in
this machine;
flat,
cold,
reflective,
but not of me.
I hold these words
on my lungs,
and, while it hurts,
I still try
to talk, but not
by speaking—
instead, I cower
and type, using
keys to lock
myself away in
this machine;
flat,
cold,
reflective,
but not of me.
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