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... and running
into the crevasses of everything like watercolor,
ink on the pages of an old book.
My bones would grind down to a fine powder
as if I had
been steamrolled.
I fold myself in two.
I’m a stuffed suitcase, the pressure
building on my windpipe,
my lungs like a bellows, the air condensing, my stomach
like a fleshy, acid-filled balloon.
Folded, flat,
a crepe, a piece of ...
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