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my little sister collected pennies, she picked them off the concrete and wiped them copper clean. she put them in her pockets. she hoped they were lucky. i collect memories from the dirt-dust corners and from all the days i swept under the carpets. i collect you in the places you touched me red; i collect the blood rush blush, the bitten skin, the flood and the float. i collect the shade of your eyes in dim afternoon light, the tune of your hands along this body and mind. i hold it all in rib bone shelves. they rattle when i walk too fast into something new, when i stand in the kitchen with darkened window glass staring at the image of god they say resides in my body and there is no mourning for me, because i know no sense of rest- me and my sleepless eyes, awake at four a.m. with shaking manic hands: soft mango in the right, knife sharpened in the other, and i stare at this god mirror girl in the night window and i breathe aching, craving blood and i do not make gutters out of these wrists. note, ye so this is something i've been sitting on for months and i don't like it v much, but i keep it bc of the last lines. haha. of course. *sigh* and yes, i always love critiques.