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My fingers could
crush the petals of a rose
until reliable identity disappears
and my hands appear as if bleeding.
And maybe they are.
Helplessly gushing and waiting—
a reflection.
Shadows come.
My red marring the white
supposed to stop the bleeding.
Hands reaching
down to me
as if hands alone could change anything

Speaking of...

  • A poem by Nicole Boisvert.


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