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In by Brittany on November 22, 2010 at 8:32 pm

When they think we’re strangers,

they don’t see

the shower of stars burned behind our ears

because you said it was more romantic than rings

and why would anyone want a ring anyway,

cold metal can’t compare to the sting

of a needle, the way we writhed as it drilled

into us, clutching hands

as you winced—almost grinning—and told me

my blood was beautiful—why, you said,

would we want rings when you can watch

stars shoot across my skin, when you can read

my scabs like Braille—why

would anyone want rings

when we could have galaxies?



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