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She forms letters and sentences from
dead air, uses their contained notes to
give life to my rotting organs, repairing
my failing heart with sword lilies and
healing the open wounds of my tired lungs with bleeding rose mallows whose strong pomegranate scent I smell with every exhale
Words dance from her lips with a pillow
like lilt, satiny syllables and amicable
assonance that navigate through the
labyrinth in my ears and plant themselves in the soil of my head, soon roots dig past my head, racing down my throat to steal the source of my voice
Slowly my humanity dies, her voice holds it in a vice grip while nature springs forth transforming me into their kin, legs become windy, gnarly branches, eyes morphing into banberries, veins fragile makeup encroached by soft petals that scratch my insides, my sun is her eyes, my water is her words, and by her grace do live
â°ââââââ â â âââââââ¯