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A whole person.

I can’t sew your pattern.

Prick my fingers, tangle my thread.

I can’t.


Colored in lines.

You are at set and go,

When I am not even ready.

I can’t.


Of any use.

You’re the ignition’s key.

I’m a crossguard at a stoplight.

I can’t.




I can’t.

Lucy-Jane Dearden

I mix words together in a certain order — sometimes it’s fiction, sometimes it’s non-fiction — sometimes good, sometimes not as good.

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