He told me he tore his eyes out with remorse.
He told me he cut out his tongue.
My own no longer knew how to say I love you
to anyone at all,
other than to trees, turtles, and the faded dawns
that raise just before
I grow desperate to see the light again and
hear the rooster crow.
He told me he slit his throat,
but it is mine
that bears the scar.
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