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     By Abriel Newton

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She wraps in scarlet and silver, a tunneled hairline,
I tell her listen to the throbbing of her brain.

She says the hole helps her breathe,
There’s blood on her chin, in her hair
but I remind her of the doors in the bellies of willows.
She says she believes in clouds now,
I tell her to quiet her stupid brain.

She says but this brain is mine. She aches of home.
I tell her to tell it to someone else.
When I kiss her, it is like kissing a child.

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