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Poem	We sat across the table. he said, cut off your hands. they are always poking at things. they might touch me. I said yes. Food grew cold on the table. he said, burn your body. it is not clean and smells like sex. it rubs my mind sore. I said yes. I love you, I said. That's very nice, he said I like to be loved, that makes me happy. Have you cut off your hands yet?
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