How do you stop those fingerless nails from scratching outside the bedroom window? Flies of bugs keep bumping into the glass, and ghostly figures try to break my silence.
Where is my mom's cookbook full of all the moon stewed potions and rested eyes?
Turn the page, the melody rings. From your ripped cage, an ounce of purple bile, that which feeds on melancholy.
From your crushed windpipes, the last words spoken to your high-school friend.
Simmer a bit. Let the swelling burst into an open wound. Place it under your pillow.
Tonight, you sleep.
You march towards her as though you were 15. You will say sorry. As no teenager could ever do.
That rush of blood to your ears, that knocking inside your skull. That murmur rolling down your cheeks.
The prisoners free. They say thank you. As they go.
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