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have you ever had a child weep inside of you, the way my mother used to cry? the way she cried with her soapy dishwater hands a child shouldn’t howl like that that’s what they said, on their way to their feasts and their funerals and their empty mailboxes with the flags still up. but it is just that everyone is sad i can lick it off the air but they get mad when i try they like the salt that burns and they won’t give me a bandaid i hear you, little girl i hear you drowning in your ocean eyes — those cicada sandbox eyes, with their little white collars and those sandpaper dusts of fire
i wore a dress like that once but it ripped from the bottom to the top and i knew it was finished when they laughed and stapled me to my knee socks and hung me out to dry. we live deep inside the rose, in the shadows that breathe up out of its thorns, with werewolves and rabbits and mermaid moth-moons who kiss us goodnight and tell us not to forget our lunchbox a desert drinks itself forever and it feels and that is why they call it Hell because if they love you you haven’t really come. Faris.




Wow!
So powerful!