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As I lie, fire ants bite my ankles.
Inferior to the heartburn,
whose duty it is to beat up my entire body.
I inhale and feel my large intestines strangle my heart
and push against my rib cage.
So I continue to lie, reflect, wait, and think of

broken glass, cheesy Polaroids,
cinnamon hearts, leather interior,
Eskimo kisses, blue Gatorade stains,

of myself.

I inhale, penetrating your bruises deeper,
and remember what my mother had said to me,
sweetheart, you will meet a nice boy and fall in love.
She was right. I fell, madly, and experienced

bloody murder, intangible truths,
generous experiments, yellow roses,
Hallmark apologies, tear streaks,

And love.

And in the instant of my profusion, my stomach growled.
Reluctant, I decide to move on, brush away the grass stains,
and attempt to make homemade spaghetti for dinner.


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