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Click hereTHE FEVER
Here I find you
Hot upon my forehead.
These words that sit here
Is like beads of sweat
To illuminate in the light.
And when they drip,
They cut like razors
Through the air
And land upon the flesh
As if blood flowing out of my wrist.
And as my fingers
Are covered in red,
It leaves the page
With an image
That soaks into the poem
And leaves me in a permanent heated sweat
Induced by the mercury that runs
Out of my veins.