Long days with short rests.
The clock has neon lights.
Spent copious amounts of life counting the steps to the door,
Never truly leaving the shackles of domestic trauma.
My friends think I am bad at texting.
The curtains are clean, floors to a lick-able standard, glass without streak or sheen.
Mental space has spiraled to quantum fields where footing is merely antique ideology.
I am alone here by design.
Staged my home for when we finally invite the demons in.
Family reunion coming next season…
If ever there would be a reason to invite shattered glass into my throat.
–therapy in the morning–
I have hurtled far far away,
so much so, I’m afraid I don’t care to know what day it might be, much less what tit size is ~in~ this month for women.
The galaxy has black holes, it feels familiar.
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