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dust runes.

 

i know a woman who once bit half way through her tongue. 

inner tendrils of self preservation trusting the old wit: silence saves.  

when i ask her why she does not speak now of then, her smile darkens into a callous.  

(why doesn't matter anymore,) she shrugs.  

her curved scar hides behind chaw-stained teeth; among divided taste buds.



an ache joins us, quiet as a high tide.  

her curled shoulder blades telegraph internal conflict.  

she's reliving that moment.  

then the tide goes out, and the ache scurries elsewhere.



she asks me a memory.  

(ever swallowed a mouthful of blood?)

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