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To T. O. Davis's previous piece
When you told me he fucked you all night what was that supposed to do? You glared at me with your Anne Sexton eyes-your fury as I tried to hold on to you; this puzzle of a man you tried to fashion into something breakable and arsenic bitter. I let go of your grip your harpy's talon in my shoulder scraping the meat away, scapula exposed, dry and yellow is no longer your perch. My healing factor is as useless as the memories of watching "X-files" and adventures we had rumbling in my skull spiking the fleshy matter-neurons scream for you to leave me alone my blood has issued enough and the surgeons can't repair him anymore- no more miracles or magic potions I'll fade away now just as you did from me.
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