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BIO

Sometimes, I see other versions of my body. In the mirror. In other people's eyes. Boy dozing in the long grass of a summer field. Boy with his fingers in his mouth, gnawing his cuticles to ragged lines. Boy as a mixtape, a ditch waiting to be filled with rain, a safe place for foxes to be born. Boy buried in mud. Boy carried off by pigeons. Boy as a castle in the sky made of starched white sheets, weighing less than a sack of rats, two slow for his father’s hand. Boy as a wind chime in a storm, for there is never a good way to talk about pain, and how it means you are only ever kissing the image of another boy’s face in the river, hearing his voice through the dying connection of the last working payphone in this town where I was born. But then. Boy split into pieces. Boy washing blood from the back of his legs. Boy who will never again kneel in church. Boy tearing himself apart. Boy as a broken guitar. Boy as a hawk I carry in my mouth without causing hurt. Boy as an old feather, ragged and torn. Boy as a raging fire. As bright as a cathedral. As a shooting star. As just another heartbeat. Boy who will not call one more awful thing into this world.

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Daniel Sheen
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