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Your veins share a portion of ruthlessness with
my rib cage. My blackened lungs.
A certain unwavering determination to
spit in the faces
of those
who dont
beleive
in
you.

Your hands grew lines a long time ago,
etched by Arabic scribe. Fine lines that
tell of only dark things.
Fairy Tales of laughter, inside the dreams
that used to be terrors.
No need for fire flies.
Just eyes.
Open ones.

The scar on your arm, traced by the unseen,
remembered by the record keepers,
who’s pledge to me, to you, and to the skies
are to make it right for a day and a night and the
ones to unfold at your feet over the soft sands
that have been imprinted.
As yours.

Put your hand to my chest. There are more recipes inside.
Potions in my words, and the languages of the poinsons
for you to learn and master with salted hands and legs planted,
in the earth of the ancients.

So, I say again,
Your veins share a portion of ruthlessness with
my rib cage. My blackened lungs. They breathe the same rights
The certain unwavering determination to
spit in the faces
of those
who dont
believe
in
you.

Look at me.

Because I do.

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