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J e n n i f e r   M a r t e l l i




I am like a woman who believes the sun 

is nothing less than a god 

riding his chariot across the sky. 


That woman would rip out your heart with a dull 

flint knife on an altar. 

She would remain a virgin if that’s what was required. 


All my men were scary beautiful 

until they weren’t, 

and then all I could be was kind. 


Like a nurse, caring nothing for demons, 

calling death death 

keeping you calm until the end

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