Boy

He puppets her so that she flushes every thought from her head and

Forces all other sensations from her flesh

Until she falls asleep against his warm chest

She would see him in heaven if she were allowed in those ranks

But one’s own destruction is always more invigorating than another’s

So she continued drowning Tuesday in a silver pool of bitterness and bottled disasters and

In time she will find herself swimming to him, a red salamander in her nostalgic pond

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