Mother-ground, show me roots, in your bare, dirty, kiss.
—Margo Berdeshevsky, Amber is a Tree's Blood

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Quiet Please

And so it was. Violation.
Betrayal. What is it but the ego
brought out, invited, into the best possible
light—defined by it—until blinded?
I’m speaking of a wounding.
Internal. Of the moment the wound is
confirmed. Vision. Feeling. Don’t.
Sounds of struggle. Don’t apologize.
Sounds of the throat opening. Any species
of animals that rise, that vow to, even
after the first bullet, a second; even without
ever knowing what a “vow” is. Don’t
try. Don’t touch me now.
 And so
it was. Release. Aperture. The ego becomes
a harsh liquor. Then the ego
becomes, simply, a body’s want for it.

— rickey laurentiis

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