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orange juiceand i don't think you ever understood, that you ever could, that at the last beat of your heart, mine quivered.
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because we were the porcelain girls, sliver-lipped like moonlight and not breathing a word.
we sold our souls for solace but lost our flesh along the way, skeletons slipping free from skin and bending at the break. we were idols -cellophane skin and ossified bodies trapped betwixt five-thousand character limits and image size constraints, binding our bodies by the same. we were lost to decimals and the space between our thighs, tea and tablespoons, calculations and heartbeats.
you found me in pieces, numbers, blurry webcam photos.
you told me:
babe, you're sick. real sick. scary sick.
we can do this, together. i'll help you. just, drink some oj, okay? your heart is weak.
you need to go, now. get out before its too late.
i left, but you were the one to never come back.
a year later, i found you at nine.
the figmented number, single digits glory, the point
RosesYou love too much, I am told by a man with a briar heart, thorny sinews and collapsed ventricles bearing down on him, hardly beating in his tight chest. He looks at me with flat, slate eyes, chipping and eroding. His hands are dark with cigarette burns and rough with calluses; I feel them on my shoulders as he looks down at me, face collapsing in at his eyes like a dead man's.
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For the first time, I realize he is dead. His briar heart dried up when winter killed his rose; my father, he is all thorns.
He squeezes my shoulders, too tight. You look like your mother, you know, he whispers, eyes shifting to the garden, to the yellow rose I plante