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there are fat wet vines creeping into my
house through the pipes and through
the walls gentle as blue flames they curl into
my living there is ice in my attic sugar on my
tile I am present and useless like a nose torn
from a face and set in a bowl when
I saw God I used the wrong pronouns
God bricked up my mouthhole
his fists were white as gold there were
roaches in my beard now I live like a widow
every day a heave of knitting patterns
and sex toys my family speaks of me
with such pride noonesh to roghane
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