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I learn to be again light-minded. I bear pink shells around
My neck. Not I -- they whisper withered of tides that hide inside
Your flesh. My bracelets are the parasites sucking out of me
The surfeit of your presence. They do -- not I -- grow hardened with
The silver melting in your iris. My clothes -- not I -- collect
The radiation of my longing. I am the blast. I have
Exploded.
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