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By Jeannine M. DeHart

Tactile, warm words,
Spin in my mouth,
Licking my lips from within,
Begging their departure.
My lips do not acquiesce.
Eventually I know,
The words will bite,
I will taste blood,
Swallow hard,
Force them to retreat,
Taking a part of me with them.

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Document last modified on: 12/03/2006

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