bury your dead.


everything in my life is congested
just the way you left it;
still, there’s something freeing in these tears
my face,
like trophies, mirroring ones you gained,
through electronic word,
or worse;
through lies that when discovered,
discovered me,
crumbled on the bathroom floor.

I’m finally writing again,
but what’s even the point in it;
attempting feats? making the unmoving move,
the unfeeling, feel?
an insurmountable task for just two hands and one pen.

i’m awake to greet the sun,
i feel like i’m the only one.

colleen means “little girl”,
and i’ve never felt more like one.

if you look closely enough, the story always develops.


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