Are you a bruised reed?
A smoldering flax?
Are you a broken branch?

Oh, and do you love it?
Do you love to forget like I do?

One will sift as wheat,
But one has come with robes.
One will slice your ankle.
Love, love, love.

There are these sharp gold knives
In this s___e meant for affections,
Where the pink skin baby once belonged.

When I speak, "I cough them out,
Gather them up in my arms,
And swallow them back down.

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