poem

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He asked me to fix him; A poem

I used my hands to stop the bleeding
but even when I had my digging palms
inside his chest,
His heart between my careful hands
He stared behind me.

And I,
I would only stare at him
until he glanced back in to my row soaked eyes and smiled.

I still wonder about the hell reflected in
his eyes.
Maybe it was me.

But he left for good and he left me with
bloody hands.

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ary