the stale water sleeping on the counter
purple flowers racing the dungeon of pine
a bowl of stale almonds suffocating my brain
the empty soap bottle tearing my muscles
but the china cabinet with pens and paper
the soul shaper. . .
the picture of a little girl
with no frame
dry sandwiches between my teeth
always new life above the kitchen sink
the fawn peeking through your jungle
and that smile
every time that smile
like drinking cold water too fast.
we’re the crooked cut, not the color.
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