The measure in inches of snow on my window is equal to the number of times I searched for you while sleeping.
She was split in two, once, when she was seventeen.
Marching, marching off to work at the telegraph office,
The walls rushed out before her, flaying her,
Laid open, her heart at war.
She marched through the door with bits of human flesh
Dangling like baubles from her sparsely lined Mackintosh.
Hands, hands bearing her to the back room,
Eyes like globes and gasps,
“Lie here, dear. The coat, get it off! Quickly, we might save the leg.”
See how the blood pistons hotly to fill the wound,
See how the color rises in her childish cheeks.
...more to come...
Observation 72
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"Sometimes life is so... I don't know. Ironic? Bizarre? The latest example:
the lead story on the news is still The Leak. But now it's the Wikileaks
releas...
2 days ago
