marichildson
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Written by marichildson

Doves

The smoke drifts from her lips in spirals, and her eyes seem to look far beyond the road in front of us.

We talk about pain and poetry and sometimes we cry,

but its ok.

And I can't help but reflect on these days.

When she clutches the steering wheel after I point out a pedestrian for the fifth time in the half hour.

And she turns around and says 

"Mari..... you are such a backseat driver."

But theres something loving in her tone, something caring in her eyes as they glare at me.

And she has doves in her hair,

That doesn't make sense but she does.

They fly between the strands of her hair and perch on her nose.

And I wonder if they're affected by the tendrils of smoke that rise from her lips.

I worry about there safety sometimes, like when we discuss the feeling of smoke pooling at the bottom of an empty stomach.

I turn to the doves, just to make sure they're still flying.

Just to make sure her hair isn't without its accessory.

Im not sure what i'll do if one day I look and..

They're not there.

I get scared sometimes that I'll turn from the window and she won't be there.

She'll have flown off into the clouds where she belonged.

And I sometimes ponder what I'll do if one day she becomes light enough that her doves can carry her off,

Away from me.

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Written by marichildson
Doves
The smoke drifts from her lips in spirals, and her eyes seem to look far beyond the road in front of us.
We talk about pain and poetry and sometimes we cry,
but its ok.
And I can't help but reflect on these days.
When she clutches the steering wheel after I point out a pedestrian for the fifth time in the half hour.
And she turns around and says 
"Mari..... you are such a backseat driver."
But theres something loving in her tone, something caring in her eyes as they glare at me.
And she has doves in her hair,
That doesn't make sense but she does.
They fly between the strands of her hair and perch on her nose.
And I wonder if they're affected by the tendrils of smoke that rise from her lips.
I worry about there safety sometimes, like when we discuss the feeling of smoke pooling at the bottom of an empty stomach.
I turn to the doves, just to make sure they're still flying.
Just to make sure her hair isn't without its accessory.
Im not sure what i'll do if one day I look and..
They're not there.
I get scared sometimes that I'll turn from the window and she won't be there.
She'll have flown off into the clouds where she belonged.
And I sometimes ponder what I'll do if one day she becomes light enough that her doves can carry her off,
Away from me.
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Written by marichildson

Sunsets

Cry me a river of your sins and let me drown in them.

Tell me again how you pulled the trigger in the most beautiful way,

how the blood fell like a crescendo, 

washing over the dark corners of this city.

Let me sink below the waters, please, let me die in peace.

I want to breathe in time to the heartbeats that this city crushed down.

The broken ones under the cobblestone and in the street lights.

This poem is for them.

The broken ones that you shot between the eyes.

But please tell me again how you lured them in with sunsets and ski mountains.

They were the innocent ones,

The ones who fell for your grace and stayed for the Autumns.

This poem is for them.

They are dying of sleeping pills in their trailer homes,

They are dying of bullets between the eyes,

They are dying looking at the fucking sunset.

The leaves are falling on their bones as we sit here.

As you describe their eyes to me, and all the hope they came with.

All their dreams that they packed into a small carry on and brought to this place.

So now the blood is washing over this city like a wave and you're offering me your hand.

Tell me about your river of sins,

Tell me about the bodies it flows over,

Tell me their stories, their dreams.

Describe their eyes to me so I can feel their fire,

Show me the pictures so I can feel their tears.

The gunshots echo through this city in the most beautiful way.

And no body cries because it

feels like rain, and the blood smells like daisies.

So no body cries because who could cry at

Sunsets?

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Written by marichildson
Sunsets
Cry me a river of your sins and let me drown in them.
Tell me again how you pulled the trigger in the most beautiful way,
how the blood fell like a crescendo, 
washing over the dark corners of this city.
Let me sink below the waters, please, let me die in peace.
I want to breathe in time to the heartbeats that this city crushed down.
The broken ones under the cobblestone and in the street lights.
This poem is for them.
The broken ones that you shot between the eyes.
But please tell me again how you lured them in with sunsets and ski mountains.
They were the innocent ones,
The ones who fell for your grace and stayed for the Autumns.
This poem is for them.
They are dying of sleeping pills in their trailer homes,
They are dying of bullets between the eyes,
They are dying looking at the fucking sunset.
The leaves are falling on their bones as we sit here.
As you describe their eyes to me, and all the hope they came with.
All their dreams that they packed into a small carry on and brought to this place.
So now the blood is washing over this city like a wave and you're offering me your hand.
Tell me about your river of sins,
Tell me about the bodies it flows over,
Tell me their stories, their dreams.
Describe their eyes to me so I can feel their fire,
Show me the pictures so I can feel their tears.
The gunshots echo through this city in the most beautiful way.
And no body cries because it
feels like rain, and the blood smells like daisies.
So no body cries because who could cry at
Sunsets?
#poetry 
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We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.
Written by marichildson in portal Publishing

Skeleton Boys

death

noun

the action or fact of dying or being killed; the end of the life of a person or organism.

Death: Your heart has disappeared. Don't panic.

It has left with the boy who holds his veins in his skeleton hands. The boy who has stomped you down so many times you're starting to look like the cracks in the pavement. 

Your heart has jumped right into his breast pocket and it has convinced itself it looks better mixed in with the dust bunnies under his bed. Where he keeps all the love notes from past renegade hearts. 

They write him inscribe of love, they promise to write him a sky as brilliant as his eyes if he can just transform his skeleton hands into birds nests. Can just turn his brittle bones into a home.

Your heart wants to make a home of his ribs. A cozy, seven-story house with a view of his lungs. Though his lungs have been dead for years and weeds are starting to crawl up his esophagus, your heart wants to plant a garden. Water it with its own blood and start and apple orchard. Make every word he speaks as sweet as the fruit.

Reality: Your skeleton boy doesn't want your heart. In fact, he's not your skeleton boy at all. He belongs to the earth, and the other hands that pull him away. 

The skeleton boy can not turn his hands into nests, only swords. and he cuts away at the home your heart has made, destroys the garden with his own hands and rips the roses from is lungs.

Fact: Skeleton boys are hard to hold onto. Their bones are much too fragile to act as weights and they have a tendency to blow away in the wind. Skeleton boys have bones that will rip holes in you if you are not careful.

Death: Your heart has disappeared. Don't panic. It's under the bed of a skeleton boy.

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We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.
Written by marichildson in portal Publishing
Skeleton Boys
death
noun
the action or fact of dying or being killed; the end of the life of a person or organism.

Death: Your heart has disappeared. Don't panic.
It has left with the boy who holds his veins in his skeleton hands. The boy who has stomped you down so many times you're starting to look like the cracks in the pavement. 
Your heart has jumped right into his breast pocket and it has convinced itself it looks better mixed in with the dust bunnies under his bed. Where he keeps all the love notes from past renegade hearts. 
They write him inscribe of love, they promise to write him a sky as brilliant as his eyes if he can just transform his skeleton hands into birds nests. Can just turn his brittle bones into a home.
Your heart wants to make a home of his ribs. A cozy, seven-story house with a view of his lungs. Though his lungs have been dead for years and weeds are starting to crawl up his esophagus, your heart wants to plant a garden. Water it with its own blood and start and apple orchard. Make every word he speaks as sweet as the fruit.

Reality: Your skeleton boy doesn't want your heart. In fact, he's not your skeleton boy at all. He belongs to the earth, and the other hands that pull him away. 
The skeleton boy can not turn his hands into nests, only swords. and he cuts away at the home your heart has made, destroys the garden with his own hands and rips the roses from is lungs.

Fact: Skeleton boys are hard to hold onto. Their bones are much too fragile to act as weights and they have a tendency to blow away in the wind. Skeleton boys have bones that will rip holes in you if you are not careful.

Death: Your heart has disappeared. Don't panic. It's under the bed of a skeleton boy.
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Written by marichildson

Stay?

Stay in this room with me, this shaking, breaking room.

Stay behind the windows, made of bars, made of bones, made of me.

I swear to you I am trying.

But my voice is hoarse and I don't know why.

Is it the sickness or because I've been screaming? I don't know why.

Neighbors, friends, I apologize. The shrieks must make it hard to sleep at night.

Forgive me, I am breaking my fingers one by one.

Stay in the water with me. Drown with me, float with me.

Stay on this cloud of jellyfish that stings every centimeter of my body.

The pain can feel nice if you let it and the burn can feel right if you fight it.

Stay. 

I need a hand to grasp and a heart to pull out, let me be your siren.

I can hear your heart in the rain and when it beats against my skin it reminds me of you.

I don't go out in rainstorms anymore.

But the sun burns me so I wrap myself in bubblewrap for protection.

Careful the seasons have teeth.

Careful the boys always have teeth.

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Written by marichildson
Stay?
Stay in this room with me, this shaking, breaking room.
Stay behind the windows, made of bars, made of bones, made of me.
I swear to you I am trying.
But my voice is hoarse and I don't know why.
Is it the sickness or because I've been screaming? I don't know why.
Neighbors, friends, I apologize. The shrieks must make it hard to sleep at night.
Forgive me, I am breaking my fingers one by one.

Stay in the water with me. Drown with me, float with me.
Stay on this cloud of jellyfish that stings every centimeter of my body.
The pain can feel nice if you let it and the burn can feel right if you fight it.
Stay. 
I need a hand to grasp and a heart to pull out, let me be your siren.
I can hear your heart in the rain and when it beats against my skin it reminds me of you.
I don't go out in rainstorms anymore.
But the sun burns me so I wrap myself in bubblewrap for protection.
Careful the seasons have teeth.
Careful the boys always have teeth.
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Written by marichildson

Blood On The Pavement

To the kids in the car:

I don't know you, but I've seen you vulnerable.

I've seen your bones, blood and tears. 

I'm sorry that your never gonna stop being kids, even though you're older than me now, you live in my memory. And you're always going to be high schoolers.

I want you to know that you're not forgotten.

You still come up in conversation, I still think about you late at night.

I'm sorry that on that day I became the scythe, accompanying death.

I'm sorry that my mom became the ghost that you'll never forget.

She ran into one of you at the store and she came home to report that you still walk with a limp.

She fixed that leg once, on the side of a road.

And I can't remember where I was.

Maybe I was kept in the car, maybe I was holding your hand.

Sometimes I wonder if you would recognize me, if I still carry the blood on my hands even though I can't see it.

Sometimes I wonder why.

Why you couldn't wait just a little longer to get to school.

I'm sorry we weren't going fast enough for you.

I'm sorry I haven't written about you before.

Like you're an unspoken thought in the back of my head, an unknown disaster.

To the kids in the car:

I'm sorry for the blood on the pavement, and the little girl who probably only stared.

I'm sorry for the airbags that didn't do their job.

I'm sorry for the other one. The driver who had a wife and kids and my mom tried her best I swear.

I'm sorry because I hope I never have to know what its like to kill your friends.

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Written by marichildson
Blood On The Pavement
To the kids in the car:

I don't know you, but I've seen you vulnerable.
I've seen your bones, blood and tears. 
I'm sorry that your never gonna stop being kids, even though you're older than me now, you live in my memory. And you're always going to be high schoolers.
I want you to know that you're not forgotten.
You still come up in conversation, I still think about you late at night.

I'm sorry that on that day I became the scythe, accompanying death.
I'm sorry that my mom became the ghost that you'll never forget.
She ran into one of you at the store and she came home to report that you still walk with a limp.
She fixed that leg once, on the side of a road.
And I can't remember where I was.
Maybe I was kept in the car, maybe I was holding your hand.
Sometimes I wonder if you would recognize me, if I still carry the blood on my hands even though I can't see it.
Sometimes I wonder why.
Why you couldn't wait just a little longer to get to school.
I'm sorry we weren't going fast enough for you.
I'm sorry I haven't written about you before.
Like you're an unspoken thought in the back of my head, an unknown disaster.

To the kids in the car:
I'm sorry for the blood on the pavement, and the little girl who probably only stared.
I'm sorry for the airbags that didn't do their job.
I'm sorry for the other one. The driver who had a wife and kids and my mom tried her best I swear.
I'm sorry because I hope I never have to know what its like to kill your friends.
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Written by marichildson

I Have Piano Fingers

Today my teacher asked me about my dad.

She says "Oh you have his musical talent!"

I say no, I have his legs. I have his run, his tendency to bolt.

I flinch so easily now, cower under trees and lamp posts that don't look too much like guitars, pianos, teeth, checks.

I say, no. I have his eyes sometimes. My family looks at me like I am the missing piece. Like maybe if I shrink enough, become a little less, I can take his place. They can cover me in duct tape and leave my irises. Maybe I can take his place at the dinner table. My grandma hugs me like I am the son she lost a long time ago. Not my dad, but the other one. She hugs me like I'm her little Hawaiian boy. I am a filler for one of the brothers, always.

I looked at my teacher and said no. I have his jaw shape in some photos. It shows up when I grimace, when I force a smile. I morph into him and fit his hole. We are yin and yang when we are apart, we become tigers when we are together.

I break down and say No! I have his fingers and he bought me a keyboard once and now I don't play it in a silent rebellion. But I still tense up when he brings it up, I don't want him to know about my revolt.

I say no but I have his taste in coffee. Though mine always has tears on the foam from where he convinced me he was right. No, I have his tendency to ruin family vacations, though I usually shoulder the blame.

I say no! He did not give me his musical talent. I learned it myself when he forced me to practice guitar everyday. I have his place in this family, my name fits on top of his on the will. They look at me with pity because yes they love me, but never as much. After all, what can compare to a son. He lights up their lives even when he's fading away. 

I have his stare, his guilt tripping abilities, his mouth, his lies.  

I have his ability to tell stories and fabricate lies.

I have everything of his but his name.

He is the silent child. The loved child. The you don't come the christmas even though you live four hours away but you must be busy child. 

He is the child that doesn't know how to raise his own children.

I have him, his hands around my neck and water down my throat.

I have his ability to scatter, leave before the damage is done.

I have his face shape, and I still flinch at my passing reflection.

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Written by marichildson
I Have Piano Fingers
Today my teacher asked me about my dad.
She says "Oh you have his musical talent!"
I say no, I have his legs. I have his run, his tendency to bolt.
I flinch so easily now, cower under trees and lamp posts that don't look too much like guitars, pianos, teeth, checks.
I say, no. I have his eyes sometimes. My family looks at me like I am the missing piece. Like maybe if I shrink enough, become a little less, I can take his place. They can cover me in duct tape and leave my irises. Maybe I can take his place at the dinner table. My grandma hugs me like I am the son she lost a long time ago. Not my dad, but the other one. She hugs me like I'm her little Hawaiian boy. I am a filler for one of the brothers, always.
I looked at my teacher and said no. I have his jaw shape in some photos. It shows up when I grimace, when I force a smile. I morph into him and fit his hole. We are yin and yang when we are apart, we become tigers when we are together.
I break down and say No! I have his fingers and he bought me a keyboard once and now I don't play it in a silent rebellion. But I still tense up when he brings it up, I don't want him to know about my revolt.
I say no but I have his taste in coffee. Though mine always has tears on the foam from where he convinced me he was right. No, I have his tendency to ruin family vacations, though I usually shoulder the blame.
I say no! He did not give me his musical talent. I learned it myself when he forced me to practice guitar everyday. I have his place in this family, my name fits on top of his on the will. They look at me with pity because yes they love me, but never as much. After all, what can compare to a son. He lights up their lives even when he's fading away. 
I have his stare, his guilt tripping abilities, his mouth, his lies.  
I have his ability to tell stories and fabricate lies.
I have everything of his but his name.
He is the silent child. The loved child. The you don't come the christmas even though you live four hours away but you must be busy child. 
He is the child that doesn't know how to raise his own children.
I have him, his hands around my neck and water down my throat.
I have his ability to scatter, leave before the damage is done.
I have his face shape, and I still flinch at my passing reflection.
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Written by marichildson

Beautiful Boy You Always Knew How To Steal The Show

Sometimes I wake up with tears in my eyes and no memory.

I can't remember what I dream most of the time so I am left with a feeling.

A memory of someone holding my hand or the feeling of lips against mine.

Now I dream about you, and it terrifies me.

Because the last time I dreamed about you was after you crushed my heart. And I woke up feeling like everything was ok, it was just a dream, everything was fine.

Beautiful boy, you carry my world in your pocket.

Beautiful boy, you haunt my dreams.

Sprinkle them with kisses and rose petals.

You haunt me, sprinkle me with kisses and smiles.

Beautiful boy, you are so magnificent you dwarf me in my dreams.

You manage to take center stage in my own play.

Beautiful boy, you scare me even in my dreams.

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Written by marichildson
Beautiful Boy You Always Knew How To Steal The Show
Sometimes I wake up with tears in my eyes and no memory.
I can't remember what I dream most of the time so I am left with a feeling.
A memory of someone holding my hand or the feeling of lips against mine.
Now I dream about you, and it terrifies me.
Because the last time I dreamed about you was after you crushed my heart. And I woke up feeling like everything was ok, it was just a dream, everything was fine.
Beautiful boy, you carry my world in your pocket.
Beautiful boy, you haunt my dreams.
Sprinkle them with kisses and rose petals.
You haunt me, sprinkle me with kisses and smiles.
Beautiful boy, you are so magnificent you dwarf me in my dreams.
You manage to take center stage in my own play.
Beautiful boy, you scare me even in my dreams.
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Written by marichildson

I Would Never Abandon You

When I was young I told myself I would never drink.

I saw the darkness it sparked in my grandpas eyes, saw my grandma cry at her birthday dinner.

When I was a child I thought everything was in black and white. Everything was determined by the two sides of a coin.

I think if my younger self saw me now she would cry.

Maybe lock herself away in the same bedroom I was locked in during my grandmas birthday.

She wouldn't understand why I drink, or smoke, or sometimes place myself in dangerous situations. She wouldn't understand the lines on my friends thighs or the feel of smoke down the back of your throat. 

If my younger self saw me right now, Im not sure if she would recognize this body.

It is a little beaten up around the edges and I have a few unnecessary bruises, my eyes are almost always tired and I stare into space a lot.

She might not recognize my short hair or my clothes,

But I hope she recognizes my eyes.

I think they still hold their spark. They still change colors in the light. They are still mine.

And whether they shine when I get a new toy, or take a shot,

They are still mine.

She is still mine.

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Written by marichildson
I Would Never Abandon You
When I was young I told myself I would never drink.
I saw the darkness it sparked in my grandpas eyes, saw my grandma cry at her birthday dinner.
When I was a child I thought everything was in black and white. Everything was determined by the two sides of a coin.
I think if my younger self saw me now she would cry.
Maybe lock herself away in the same bedroom I was locked in during my grandmas birthday.
She wouldn't understand why I drink, or smoke, or sometimes place myself in dangerous situations. She wouldn't understand the lines on my friends thighs or the feel of smoke down the back of your throat. 
If my younger self saw me right now, Im not sure if she would recognize this body.
It is a little beaten up around the edges and I have a few unnecessary bruises, my eyes are almost always tired and I stare into space a lot.
She might not recognize my short hair or my clothes,
But I hope she recognizes my eyes.
I think they still hold their spark. They still change colors in the light. They are still mine.
And whether they shine when I get a new toy, or take a shot,
They are still mine.
She is still mine.
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Written by marichildson

I Write

I write in free verse. 

I write in the blood on the tip of my tongue, your heart between my teeth, your eyes staring into mine. 

I write to feel whole. 

To feel a little less like I don't belong, am not complete. 

To feel a little more worthy. 

As if every word on my paper is a gift to this world for bringing me into it but I've never been good at writing thank you cards. 

I write to preserve you. 

I write to preserve me. 

Because I have seen too many people fall of the map like a forgotten puzzle piece and I don't want that. 

I want to be that piece of the puzzle that you do first. 

Like a corner or an eye. 

But I also want to disappear. 

So I write to find balance between the two. 

To hover on the edge of a cliff without actually jumping. 

To touch the barrel of the gun to my head and only smile. 

I write to help someone. 

I want my words to bring a smile to someone's face as other people have brought one to mine. 

My medium is you. 

And my god that sounds stupid and I really do hate cliches but it's true. 

I write in the shape of your lips and your inhales of breath. 

I write for no other reason than to exist. 

So that for just one minute I can be greater than me. 

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Written by marichildson
I Write
I write in free verse. 
I write in the blood on the tip of my tongue, your heart between my teeth, your eyes staring into mine. 
I write to feel whole. 
To feel a little less like I don't belong, am not complete. 
To feel a little more worthy. 
As if every word on my paper is a gift to this world for bringing me into it but I've never been good at writing thank you cards. 
I write to preserve you. 
I write to preserve me. 
Because I have seen too many people fall of the map like a forgotten puzzle piece and I don't want that. 
I want to be that piece of the puzzle that you do first. 
Like a corner or an eye. 
But I also want to disappear. 
So I write to find balance between the two. 
To hover on the edge of a cliff without actually jumping. 
To touch the barrel of the gun to my head and only smile. 
I write to help someone. 
I want my words to bring a smile to someone's face as other people have brought one to mine. 
My medium is you. 
And my god that sounds stupid and I really do hate cliches but it's true. 
I write in the shape of your lips and your inhales of breath. 
I write for no other reason than to exist. 
So that for just one minute I can be greater than me. 

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Written by marichildson

Poet

Sometimes I worry you love me because I write. That you find your heart beats faster at the metaphors I paint under your fingernails than the crinkles next to my eyes. 

I'm afraid you use my poems as a way of putting me in a box. Label me and leave me on the shelf so in the future you can say you dated a poet. 

But my body is filled with hearts and I've given you a detailed maps of all my soft spots. And so far you've only used the map to draw noises from my lips but I'm scared one day you'll use it as target practice. 

One day you will shoot arrows into the skin of my neck and my arms and all my many hearts. 

I'm so scared that one day you will break me and then relish in all the ways I can describe my pain. That you will keep the poems in a folder labeled "That One Time I Dated A Poet And Saw How Many Ways She Could Describe My Eyes. Saw How Many Ways She Could Beg Me To Take Her Back."

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Written by marichildson
Poet
Sometimes I worry you love me because I write. That you find your heart beats faster at the metaphors I paint under your fingernails than the crinkles next to my eyes. 
I'm afraid you use my poems as a way of putting me in a box. Label me and leave me on the shelf so in the future you can say you dated a poet. 

But my body is filled with hearts and I've given you a detailed maps of all my soft spots. And so far you've only used the map to draw noises from my lips but I'm scared one day you'll use it as target practice. 

One day you will shoot arrows into the skin of my neck and my arms and all my many hearts. 

I'm so scared that one day you will break me and then relish in all the ways I can describe my pain. That you will keep the poems in a folder labeled "That One Time I Dated A Poet And Saw How Many Ways She Could Describe My Eyes. Saw How Many Ways She Could Beg Me To Take Her Back."

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