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hiroshima and everything after the print of your dress burned into your pretty skin the room of ghosts one window and one door and all of the reasons your life is a prison a husband you hate a child dead before its first birthday every act an act of enormity no matter how small and every word with at least two meanings what you say weighed against how freely you bleed where you sleep determined by how far you're willing to crawl each day built imperfectly on all of the ones that came before it notes on escape on sunday afternoon i would call the sky fragile i would push my hands through this tired glass to touch it i have spent the better part of my adult life obsessing over missing fathers and battered women do you remember christmas in the year of burning churches? the man we found looked familiar but had no use for your tears wanted only money and the news that your mother was dead and what did i say six months later when you finally walked away from me? nothing and now i love my wife and i love my son and it will do nothing to help them live forever i peel the skin from my fingertips until everything i touch feels like pain how many years will we waste waiting for some empty idea of beauty to save us?
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