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by Ranyah Khan

The tiny seeds of morality melted

Into a crochet of other minute foundations

that thread together into a tapestry of a human

made from little wires of silk that were stretched out of the grand anus’ of forgotten worms

Which your mother then knit together with slow, idling hands

repositioning each piece as she lay it

and you held her scarf with a bloated heart and wore it as a crown

while street merchants puked out hundreds of pieces just the same

in minutes

with empty heads

About the Author

Ranyah is an emerging writer from Delaware.

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