hands holding, hands holding

3 of them.

pressed like flowers,
inked, like flowers

hands that have beaten poets
from the sheets between me

3 of them.

I just want every city to think of me and wish I was there,
cup me like moonlight,
miss me like a wound

my god will make me a trophy in the next life,
(filled with precious)
not waving but drowning
goodbye

3 of them.

They speak, saying
You are your own’s own’s own.

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