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Submitted:Apr 1, 2013    Reads: 3    Comments: 1    Likes: 1   


Why is there nothing to say anymore?

The grey we inhale bleaches

the words on our chlorine breaths;

and the effort of every breath

is bitter.

But this is how it works:

we're on a carousel and

the animals have been replaced

by the spines of debutantes and gigolos;

and with every revolution

their vertebrae snap

and we make a wish.

I wish,

I wish . . .

"I have nothing to say," she says.

"I have a bulimic tongue," he responds.

Of course,

she smiles. "You have an anorexic soul."





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