in which i trap a fly under a cup and one of us waits for death.

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the room is a crime scene in slow motion and one of us is struggling

i always thought i knew darkness before this i always welcomed it

used to pull covers over my head as a child used to do a lot of things

and my mother would call it a self-destruction would call it a tragedy

in three parts pills blade blood and dessert if i'd eaten all that was

on my plate could call it a sin to kill a living creature

teacher says to show my work and i show her how i traced the lines

of my hands with a pen the head line the heart line the life line

color in the pad of my thumb and stamp my best friend's skin with it

and one of us is struggling i kept a compass in my pencil case

kept safety pins and pencil sharpeners and disposable razors

if i'd been dumb things would have been easier and if i'd been smart

i'd be dead already it takes ten hours for the fly under the cup to die

i time it in how the sun rises the light golden yellow

and filling out the edges of my room.

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