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Washed Ashore
I die over and over—
between pages—a ghost
in a world more real than my
own—drowning in ink—
willingly washed ashore—
swelling, bloating breath.
Against my nature of concealment,
I cough out the ink—everywhere—
chaos, carnality, collapse!
onto a canvas I cannot
cower from.
Who else perceives meaning there?
Who else feels the frenzy like fire?
Copyright ©
Laura Breidenthal
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