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And Words Are All I Have
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Those raised blanched scars along your arms
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Are beacons impossible to ignore.
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You trace each in turn with a fingertip,
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remembering how every new cut
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seemed like a victory then,
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its own perfect row of tiny scarlet beads
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triumphant tattoos propelling you a step forward
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along the endless forbidding corridors,
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lending you a voice to cry out
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These thin welts proclaim your story now,
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Stalwart, they proved your true north.
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Offering proof that you endured,
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celebrating how you carved your way
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Pink Angora How wrong we can be about the things we think will save us... I walked behind them on the way home after the usual Saturday night skating at the small town's arena. He was the high school all-star, she the ice ballerina. She wore pink angora mittens, and a matching beret perched at what seemed the …
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There are strangers who look at you like they know you and the smell of a bar on a cold night is always the same whether in Pittsburgh or Penang, where we search for something to matter, the faces we can trust until morning. City streets at three in the morning are identical, their shadowy passageways and slick pavement advising …
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