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The Meal Sometimes I try to write. Sometimes I just try to disguise the bleeding from my stubbed fingers (a smear of words made to calcify and crust like young continents). Sometimes I give you the scab to pick at and the itch to scratch. Sometimes I blow deep into your ear until you go dizzy with the drama (the needs of living echo true to you). Sometimes I’m mean, and you are too. Sometimes simple metaphors don’t suffice and so we both suffer through the devices and structures and strictures and forget that it’s language and it’s you and it’s me and it’s the meal (regardless of the cutlery). |
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