I’m Still Here

Blood: the word for family

in the lips of angels

hot       hot       hot

like Florida every summer

voices got into a tangle, where

we felt happy, now, a silence,

as though it belonged, had

always belonged to us,

a killing floor, the only dark

shape in a bed

but it’s—

it’s not death if you refuse it

it’s not regret if you fake it

 

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