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Erin L. Miller

Nocturne

 

You count your life now in devoured parts,

inches lost on the body. Before it’s over,

 

the buildings in your chest will be nothing

but empty, bloated vessels. You didn’t

 

plan any of this but it will happen

anyway: Your stupid female heart

 

bares its teeth. A silver hair wraps

your wrist in the shower.

 

Every version of the truth expires

gracefully down the drain.


 

Slick specters creep across your eyes

before the time of sleep.

 

In the dark of your bedroom, two rabbits

stand over another rabbit, eating him.

 

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