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You are taking short, asphyxiating breaths.

There is no air in you.

I talk softly to you, aspirate you.

Your lungs are full of what you have not said.

You are not breathing.

This place is anaerobic.

I lance myself. My blood is thick and viscous

And slowly saturates my clothes.

There are too many others here.

I now am mystified and cauterize the wound against your rage.

Smouldering and breathless now we sleep.

Fall 1991