white-tiled room and
humming machinery, throb of
distinctive wounds.
I need something to grab onto,
my connection suffering,
a witness to
the dead girl, autopsy
under the nail of her finger.
Leave us alone, please,
damage not responsive,
particles scraped up to a
horrified whine.
I'd like to look at her,
exposure to one word
that she hasn't said,
a shroud of pine.
We were close more than once.
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