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Pieces
You cut me
into tiny morsels,
leave me
wide open,
bleeding rose petals
the color of tears,
stuff me
into the rough,
resilient
sackcloth
we call my body.
I am little pieces
of places
scattered,
but planted here,
for now,
tomato seeds
for myriad gardens.
Please –
please, don’t ask me
where I’m from.
You won’t like my
answer:
I,
or rather,
these
smeared
red pieces of me
on the immaculate linoleum floor,
come from everywhere.
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