yet they flow
away from me all
the
same.
i measure time by
the moments
i sit still. i
measure time by
my
moments alone.
reflections of
me alone;
reflections on me
alone.
there’s this
space
right behind my ribs
right where it aches
and i can’t seem to
sit without it
hurting -
there’s this
space
and i store a
little soft spot there,
a little soft
spot for
this wonderful girl
i’m trying so very
hard to love.
sometimes
my eyes go glassy
and i walk
down
carotid avenue
and fibula street
down staircases of
cold
breaking ribs
into that space,
and i sit there. and i
weep for every version
of me
i lost.
i weep
for the image the iconography
the
angel of the (night) house the
sacrificing the martyr the
idea the symbol the thought
i grieve ( as i was
told i will )
for the costumes
and the dresses
and the makeup
and the hair
and the lights camera action
that my heart used to tend to.
ladybugs in the bathroom
and lockets of heaven
and palaces of
similes and
metaphor
and double triple meanings,
but i lay now,
bare back against
cold tiles;
hand against the skin of
my stomach,
oh, i lay here
now
and the words slip out of my fingers,
in a gruesome way.
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