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In Bloom.
The past reverberates through me in the present
stains my clothes pungent.
At fifteen, a boy stole the solace of the dark from me
in his bed
with his hands.
Now when he touches me,
he must keep the lights on.
In sleep the past has me,
travels upwards, claws at my throat
and I cry out
for the dark to let me in.
At twenty, the boy who stole the solace of my...
Tuesday 28th June 2022 4:37 am
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