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When we die and they cut us open they’ll find
the fat from the fries we ate
at one o clock in the morning
congealing in our spent arteries
the bass from the gay nightclub
misted with sweat and cologne
vibrating in our stiff bones
the sangria we drank like water
in our first apartment
adrift in our drying blood
the kisses from strangers
deep and feverish
imprinted on our cooling lips
everything we hoped and dreamed
in the dying days of teenagedom
painted on the caves of our skulls
the thud of fear as the thunder
chased us home from St. Laurent
echoing in the quiet chambers of our hearts.
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