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By Valentina Thompson

My heart
beats into the sleeping city,
each person I’ve loved living
in different chambers,

leaving the lights on,
keeping me up.

In the streets of myself, it hits
my chest soft, like a habit, a
pulsing between lovers’ knees.
Hurts loud from all the times their
frames strayed into others’
while I was tired asleep.

I am a rhythm
in my own breath,
tenant—I am not
your home anymore.

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