Voice like a paper airplane crash, words
drop, terrorist attacks on the soul.
'almost had forgotten what heartache felt like'
and she becomes pink cellophane stretched over
a sixty watt bulb, sizzling
melting into herself.
Involuntary muscle spasms like race horses run
down her back, she's sinking,
no, she's drowning.
Pain pain
no, I'm fine.
Pain
pain
PAIN and
no you don't get a purple heart.
You can't call the cops on advice from concerned vocal cords
but it can stab you eight times in your bedroom.
No justice.
She burns like dry ice,
cold and isolated.














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