I pretend to lock my lock
I feel like a criminal
my forever audience
follows
I step into the elevator
the circus presumably settles
as soon as I open the door
to my moon room
the one I imagine
is situated on a marsh
and a train runs through the distance
carrying wheat and jewelry
can you imagine if I had
invented thread as a metaphor
but I am grateful it exists
the blood lost it's shape on the tile
the kitchen tile that is
why do I bother with the addition of blood
it doesn't feel like it becomes
this blog
my nightgown bears the brunt
of my night sweat
the saltiness of self control dissolved
for me a long time
ago
into the strange solution I need
to bear this life on the edges
of sensitive
and still I'm basically bubble-wrapped
wracked with vagueness
but pleased that this mom thinks
her baby can understand the birds
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