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| October 2nd, 2009 |
| The boy fell apart
like a fountain, lips soaking through the carpet. I asked why he kissed mirrors. He clutched an answer tight, knuckles juicing vowels. Red rain spurted from his ceiling and I forgot to switch on my ears. The boy offered my face incased in purple ice. I drowned in someone’s sky. |
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| Backstroke |
| by Daniel C. Porder |