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I’m here.

You scratch your finger with a paper.  It bleeds. The edge cuts deep. Your skin, an open mouth. Skin,  open tin can. Rigs and sharp points. Sinks in and reaches boiling point. Picks and pokes from all points. Intersection point of departure. Standing on the edge of yourself center. Stumble and trip,  malfunction point. Positioning latitude and longitude. The certainty of the clock hitting the hour. Blood rushing. Scissors and pointy pencils, craft knive and other sharp utensils. You have a sharp eye. A strong presense and A heavy stare. Break and drop objects. Chip and rough on the edges. Walk slowly on the ledge. Sacrifice steps,  mental calculations. You dream of corners and the way they breath you in so heavily. Of sharp  pointy spaces. You breath heavily. Hurt. Sting. Burn. Disappear. Don’t know how to be soft edge. How to bend. How to Twist and smooth the silhouette.

How to unlearn.

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