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four parts of a story: you - rhea kotrashetti


lay your secrets down in this warm cavity

of pink and red and specks of white

like you lay your broken pieces in your grave


take my syllables and thread them into words

sentences that say something

and mean more than just my lips

trembling next to your ears

like you took what was mine and pulsating

and made it yours and static


interpret your fragility

after realizing

my love was Kafkaesque

like you interpret goodness --



left the weeping to willow trees

and sliced my tongue in half

to speak your language

one recites sonnets of repentance

the other, panegyrics

so long.


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