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Thursday
Last Thursday,
I had a belt laced to my hands.
I remember grasping my makeshift device
with the same reluctance of a four-year-old,
who would curl around his mother's leg
at the slightest sign of abandonment.
I can only wonder how
Thursday can transpire like this—
cutting my brain out and leaving all
but a small cavity for mangled moths
to clap against the walls.
Thursday
became what they call an illness,
that had me pacing my room ‘til midnight,
counting my steps by threes.
Oh, call the honeybees to sweeten my sickness.
The peas on my dinner plate
seem to warp into brown batter—
like the color of my soles.
Old, like the strings tangled between
what they call emotions.
This doesn't feel like emotions!
This feels like vacancy.
I own a motel of a mind—
only the electricity bill
is way past due,
the tap has run dry,
and the insulation has run thin.
The insects, that burrow
through my brain
make me and these moths
foreign to my own sanity.
By the way,
the honeybees
were never sincere.
Dear Happiness:
I am waiting for you,
to peer through the door,
and whisper September to me.
September, the beginning.
I miss, the beginning.
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