It’s not plot.
It’s what comes
in night terrors and
dreamy dripping fantasies
that take over the afternoon.
Things that don’t make sense,
finding their way inside chest cavities,
through open-ended questions, burning
paper with every single thing that needs to be
forgotten. Or repaired. Or rebuilt. Lyrics I forgot I knew until the song comes on
the car radio, early morning, shaking me out of the coma I’d been in for three years.
Reminding me that every fucking thing that has ever happened
is threaded into my existence. The water and blood that
create the thing that people see when I walk down
the street; Show up to a new experience; Say no to
what doesn’t fill me to the eyes with light;
Close doors to all of the houses I’ve
built where I can no longer stay.
It is the matter of my body,
the steps I choose to take;
where they lead. It’s
through black tunnels,
fingers groping at the dark
to feel for what says
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