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She talked about trees that grew in cemeteries
like it was some type of evil myth
prepared as a false promise for the most naive of kids
that longed to feel their parents ashes
in the eyes of an older lover they’ll never find

and in her bedroom she searched for bullets plunged in yellow slits of paper
upon which she poured her brightest lines
asking a deceased flower boy if he would come and visit
the purest misunderstanding of her father’s lies
but every day she’d wait
with a silver lining of hope she had once seen in her mother’s eyes
for something with no life left in it

and every night
she’d keep the light on
knowing nothing would arrive.

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