Monday 11/22/2010 01:14:00 AM

She swallows her confessions. In small bites. Chewing slowly. Bones on the bell chime. With a rusted urgency. It's never over. It always is. It's been a lonely journey. Looking for the places between the choices.

Finding out that they don't remember.

Pulling the decisions from the wounds in her flesh. It's the blood. It's always the blood. That they want. The years are full of it. A lifetime of red.

You can't build a time machine without that sliver of weakness. It's the pain that makes it true. It's the ache that provide the combustion.

When the silence is so sure. I still possess this defiant machine. The fist of this beating heart. Punching me hard. In the face.

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