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Flash Fiction & Poems

Guerrilla, my love

orange

Guerrilla, my love, save some passion for me. There’ll be mangoes, freshly cut azaleas & siestas. But your callouses must be ready to soften.

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They emerge through the quivering

off_white

They emerge through the quivering heat, their pursed lips grotesquely contorted by shame. Such a vibrant surrender greeted with nails.

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In the evening beauty appears

In the evening beauty appears dreary, moving lovesick into the care of dreaming. Sunrise pushes aside the fog.

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They'd clung like people not wanting to die

They’d clung like people not wanting to die tend to do—the ghosts in them already breathing. Then as quiet as dew they drifted away.

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The man-child points his rifle

The man-child points his rifle at me. I unbraid time; relinquish my right to cry for his losses. Both our eyes are open, looking at nothing.

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