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You could walk inside the heart of a whale.
You could have a cocktail party there.
You could carve your name into the heart.
You could pretend to be one half of a couple
that is deeply in love and carve both names
and no one would know about your lie.
Harold, there are children inside the heart
of a whale at a museum, and they leave
mustard everywhere. I am a terrible
person who allows terrible things to happen.
I know about the walls of muscle ready
to collapse in on them and I will not tell them.
In my head, I am yelling at the children, but in my throat,
Harold, nothing followed by whistles of nothing.
Harold, they will sit in the center
of another animal and find it unbearable.
I will not tell them they are the center of attention
and no one will stop any of this from happening.
I will let it happen, Harold. They will make a chandelier
out of their fingerprints and I will let it happen.
I will watch the light pressed out of them,
watch them compressed into pinholes,
into memories of sad but beautiful pinholes.
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