You talk like I breathe and there's this strange feeling in my bones
they're like dust in the wind, like iron surrounded by boiling water oil and blood
my nerves and my flesh and my hairs
electricity. But worse. Far worse.
You know how the soil goes all muddy, the smell of all things new
when the rain falls on both our skins, wax melting
white with strays of dark brown filth
your teeth and my fingers, clutched.
It began hurting before it started. We knew
the walls were there. We had seen them
reflected in the disgusting water our feet were stroking.
The light was bright. The day was young. All we had to do
was to sit tight. Still. Silent. And perhaps, if the Gods had allowed it,
we might have been allowed to live something. True.
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