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70 The Plagiarist Each night in a ruined country, I spraypaint my name on buildings and bridges. Big black letters, sometimes red, make all things mine. In my bed, I use all of the words you whispered into my skin. When I open my mouth, it is us I devour. Know: I erase nothing but your name. This, my sweet, makes all things true. Later—in hell—I’ll make sure I quote you. Now repeat after me: I’m not the one who wrote this. ...

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