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Fat Cat's First Book Poetry

Tease

the movement in my arm from warm
to gradual chilled existence as the
nerves begin to wake and regain sense.
both limbs recapture consciousness as
I again can breath, under flourescence.
lights, above my body, show me tense.
pinned down like an insect but not beautiful,
not similar to a butterfly,
but still, it is of course my own fault.
I should hide and not exist – be numb,
no blood, just dumb, or dead, my curse
that I am made of flesh instead of salt.

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