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My, how quaint;
this little nest I have weaved,
both a cradle made of thorns and a casket fashioned with weeds.
A flush crashes over my body, I'm writhing in heat
I can feel my spine glisten, licked by fire from beneath.
A tongue I know too well
a feverish dance between my teeth.
If I keep still enough I won't be strangled in my sleep
I recite this to myself this while I count down the beads.
I can feel my face dewing as I'm fuming over seeds;
the ones I have sown
and whatever I may reap.
I'd slay the phantom of your memory and all that's yours to keep.
I'd draw a line across the ocean if I thought it would set me free . . .
But I wrap my mind
in nursery rhymes
as not to question what I believe.
Delving deeper into the pine my heart grows weary and weak.
A sickly haze settles over my perception, a consistent truth I desperately seek.
Like a butterfly trapped in a mason jar, strength's just on the other side of my reach.
Though I'd sooner let the earth take over,
chilled beneath the ground and sailing through quixotic dreams.
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