Her love and her suffering are conjoined,
sharing a heart and a stomach,
breathing the same air
— the violent, terminal air;
she has too many second opinions
for any robust optative; no more shall she,
sighing, splash in speculations of surgical separation.
Covenanted to one, ground up by the teeth of the other,
wearily waiting wastefully (without wisdom),
fueled by fool’s-hope,
her footsteps dirges,
she journeys towards two different funerals,
towards a cold, but colorful, freedom.
One thought on “Thoracopagus”
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