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i collect my bad luck
in a pot in my stomach.
and what could be done, anyway—
only eighteen, and i have died eight times already,
and all of the candles in the world,
all of the drowned hives,
all of the blue hydrangeas,
and the green pools
couldn’t gather back
into me the things i have given away,
red and essential as organs,
yet i spit them into the hands
of any that would take them from me,
closing their fingers around its pulsating urgency,
urging “Take it! Eat it! Hide it away!”
death steams to me
over the ocean,
but i’ll beat him to the meridian.