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Behind my eyes, the Nightmare’s voice was coy. You’re running out of time, dear one, he said, slithering past my ears. Tell him how you feel. If you don’t say it aloud, can it ever be real?
Rebecca Gillaspy liked this
“it was the first time a poet seemed to understand that wrath was not merely external; was not just a screaming raving tornado of destruction. Sometimes you swallowed it down like a hot coal. Sometimes it only ever burned you”
― Katabasis
― Katabasis
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