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between my hands are the ghosts whose faces i cluttered with kisses overlapping indignant stains of how i loved between my hands are truths whispered and hatreds revealed souring the air like ghosts

to submit the poemabove poems in your nesta trifling bite of red stringstolen from wet earthquake as you unsheathe its final threada home now barren of such frivolity dance, little wrenmourn, sweeter dovethe poet parts with another sliver of heart