You struck the match—and blew. A stewof me and you,left simmeringin not enough. I was the wick,the flicker,the bustbeneath your breath. Insecurity—your favorite weapon.Everything you wrong,even the way I hung,wrongly. Painfully penetrative,you split meopen barely wide—just enoughto feel less. A ghost now,residing in your periphery.I smile.(An imaginary mend.) “It’s got to be okay,” they say.So

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