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By Patricia Mercado

What was it that you wanted from me? I had a dream

that you shot me from across the dining table, that

the bullet went through my chest, leaving an exit

wound the size of your index finger. I woke up only

to find that you were actually the gun, hollow and cold,

you have an agenda. Made only to kill, what did you mean?

When you tell me Iโ€™m always this way, always slipping

on the blood of my dead body. ๐˜ ๐˜ฐ๐˜ถ ๐˜ข๐˜ณ๐˜ฆ ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ฆ ๐˜ณ๐˜ฆ๐˜ข๐˜ด๐˜ฐ๐˜ฏ ๐˜โ€™๐˜ฎ ๐˜จ๐˜ฐ๐˜ฐ๐˜ฅ.

Was I really? When I helped you bury the bodies, all of them

rotting, like I am now. The earth has claimed them and theyโ€™re

telling me Iโ€™m next. Fate has called it from the moment we met.


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