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My very bones turn to dark emeralds–a swampish glistening

What doesn’t get touched by ordinary hands is my seven leagues of seawater, my emerald bones, the glowing neon of my cave-dwelling fish, the phantoms of smoke trails and entrails and snail shells crushed underfoot by lumbering grownup shoes–the little pink-seamed princess delicacy of dimpled knees and angel kisses. The faery I ferreted away for a time safe to shine. You have coaxed out my twinkling–you have massaged my heart into rhythm again.



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Poet and Tarot Reader, specializing in Water Cartography
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