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No point of origin has fever.

But its point of departure,

Is a thousand droplets,

Through a thousand pores.

Fever track untraceable.

Usually spontaneous,

Although affected by shame.

 

Even in my feeling right here I cut myself down lines of black and white,

Leave my shadow tacked to the floor with your easy pins.

Lie in ribbons on the blade of ‘too much’,

Only allowed form through the unclaimed dramas,

Of those kind of men.

 

Who are boys and boys of many other boys.

An endless row of troubled eyes,

In line. On line.

Bitter reverence for a timeless schoolyard.

And teeth set determined,

For a kind of encouragement,

Unavailable and denied.

 

I’ll walk your corridor.

 

Ducking and diving all those fragile blows,

 

To come back home,

 

To my self.

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I used to know you were in the kitchen before I entered. Not because I could hear you.

Picked at each string in hesitation of your heat and heavyweight.

Took interest in your rage at it all – not all unjustified.

 

The dining chairs were always more present, more uncomfortable.

I felt the delicate fold of my fingers, and the flow of my downcast gaze,

Felt my own frailty like I was meant to.

 

I think I hoped my language would touch you in fellowship,

But you were deaf to it.

I signified only weakness and you echoed at my stare.

 

When we laughed together, I saw a boy in you.

At the time, it was to much to ask, for you to see the girl in me.

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