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Shoot me where I stand.
Pull the trigger
and let the bullet fly.
Dying here,
in this stasis of
afraid to move,
would be easier
than walking this path,
this rock-strewn migration
of hearts under feet.
I want to feel the slug
slither under my skin,
crimson blossoms and white lilies–
blood and bone.
It would be easier
to die quick,
instead of these
agonizing millimeters
of footsteps
I take towards you.
My body wastes
and shrivels
and wants
for a touch consumed
with the icy fire
of lost love,
the unending torture
of the unrequited.


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