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Threads of the Soul

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  • 1 min read

by Taya Boyles

The sinew and the paper mill’s smog
reach the clouds like the first time holding hands
and the last.
Oh, Eli Somer, if you know, you know. #MADD
You would know I ghosted the edges of my soul
and found no seam,
a single thread I could rob
from ‘immaculate’ conception.
No pinnable pattern,
a chameleon in a forest
with ever-changing shades.
One can keep their bandages dry
if enough bodies sink
for them,
never unstitched,
never undone.

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