The pen struggles to
draft a new sentence
I gave him my imagination
to shake it
to raise it, to
throw it onto his pretty face.
To drag this old love
coarse wheel sharp glass
pieces of my memory
spread over our floor.
Then I let him bite my fingers
deeply until I shouted with tears.
Then I gave him my imagination
once, twice and again another time.
So from my pen
thistle could bleed
and the lyrics flow.
So from his heart new
words could be written.
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