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Confined by my watery prison.
Nothing save the sound of my own shallow breathing, and the haunting,
transcendent sound of water all around.
I swallow, longing to take the comfort inside of me and hold it forever.
Limbs slow, weighted, free.
Floating, but held in place. Flexing, but still.
Gulp, I drink,
and realize that I am the water,
I am the water. I am the water,
but I am the blood as well,
coppery, fluid,
me-tasting,
I swallow but I am drinking myself.
An endless swallow, purge, swallow, purge,
and I am again the water, the blood.
These are my words, and I stretch... but cannot break free.
Confined by my watery grave.
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Yamamara Sadako

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February 2009
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