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Cherries MAG
Emma holds out her wrists.
The cuts are small,
a quarter length of a broken toothpick.
The blood has already crusted,
dried up like little red cherries
forgotten on the tree.
She offers them to me,
asking me to reconcile her.
I am no God.
I cannot pull cherries
from her weary branches.
All I can do is ask why.
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