Don’t Die by Howie Good

You’re whichever tree, the beech tree or the silver birch, sheds its leaves
first. Blood that should only flow out parts of your heart flows back in.
There are no secrets allowed, and no do-overs either, a line of buildings in
the distance like so many tall knives. If thoughts made a noise, the noise
my thoughts made would be moderate to severe, the flap-flap-flap of
winged skulls hunting insects in the dark.

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