Blisters on our hands pop like bubble wrap,
and the drive home is filled with clowns
that like to lay down in the middle of the
road and hope you don’t see them, but we
do and are required by law not to give them
the satisfaction of completing their joke.
Everyone around me wears a different yoke
that makes their shoulders hurt and doesn’t
let them see the things they want to see.
A jewel cutter feels the beat and lets his fingers
bleed. I need a moment to say
I think her dress is beautiful. I keep my hopes
down because I know that I’m not spiritual.
I do a ritual almost every morning; dipping owl
feathers in ash and writing her name on paper
I stole from one of dark rooms. I guess I am
what I thought I wasn’t. It breaks you, or I
guess it doesn’t. All I want is for the lost
to get back home where they belong.
I listen hard for a familiar song. You can’t
be wrong if you are in the moment,
I promise there is more than just
this pain bestowment.

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