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Marrow

Something feeds

on the marrow in my bones,

leaving them hollow;

but not like a bird’s,

whose bones are full

of sky

and sunshine,

to make them light.

My bones are hollow

like the words on a page

that tried so hard to fit

together

that their skin ripped open

and their meaning

just bled away.

And my bones are heavy

as everything that could fill

the emptiness.

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