I gave birth to my mother
when I heard myself
tell my father
that he didn’t hold me
the way I needed him to.
Bloody remnants
remain,
they stain
the surfaces of things.
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See Allof me, little by little little bites sinking into old wounds every time and I let her because just like the trees open their hands to the snow I do love the idea of dying slowly loved and afraid and b
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