“It’s back again,” I tell you.
You ask me what it is
and I’m not sure exactly what
to call it. So I tell you it’s that bird I thought I killed, the one that shits on my car every morning. It’s that sweater that still looks like his eyes and his hands and it’s been 9 months. It’s 7 days in a row on 3 hours of sleep and a stomach that tastes like guilt. It’s a poem that explains everything and fixes nothing.

 

 


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