This is an exception to my like for long poems. Something about it just sets me off badly. As soon as I read this: or picked for himself the pear of her heart, or lifted her hand to where his own heart
was a small, dark, terrified bird in her grip. Where it hurt
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or picked for himself the pear of her heart,
or lifted her hand to where his own heart
was a small, dark, terrified bird
in her grip. Where it hurt
it was like a switch for me.
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