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Essays

I wanted to write an essay,
but I wrote my last note instead.
There was a girl with bruises,
and the workers asked her about her grades instead.

I’m balancing so carefully to edge,
close enough to lean over, feel salty breath on my face,
and the heat and pressure behind me,
magma still flowing.

If I told you, would you call me monster?
Push me away, instead of hold me tight?
The marks are my form of love, my cry for light.

The workers asked about her eyes,
and not the bruises covering the skin,
and when they did, with bated breath,
she told them it was her,
and knifed her way to the end.

The salty end.

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