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lynn

2020-12-17 01:12 pm
sitting on the red couch eating rice and beans straight from the pot the rice is undercooked and toothy it sticks to my spine it burns my throat picking around green peppers while the south winter sun runs through the window and reflects off the floor and is blinding bright it burns my eyes it doesn’t feel warm at all despite the two pairs of socks and layered shirts and oh

i’m so tired. 

might just. 

wrap up in a blanket

and go to sleep. 

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lynn

2020-07-21 01:31 am
devouring the skin inside my lip.
of course, everything in the human body is connected. of course.

staining the porcelain with blood and iron, iron and blood and water, the permutations of rust.

my voice becomes sticky, sickly sweet - the performance of wellness thickened even further by blood. 

my crazy, concentrated and caustic, drains through my nose and onto my chin and onto my shirt and onto my hands and down the drain. 

“i wish the blood inside my mouth were yours”. 

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lynn

2020-04-29 12:56 am
it's my turn to put away the dishes
it's the same knife i use to cut strawberries in the mornings
the sucrose covers my hands.
do you think blood is the same kind of sticky?
will it come off with soap and water and elbow grease?
will it even matter?

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lynn

2020-04-07 10:57 am
the bedsheets, striped linen, rumpled, unkept
the jar of half-full change on the nightstand
the dollar store notebook full of dated dreams
the bible, still lying in the nonfiction section of the bookshelf
the lavender curtains, billowing in the cool spring air—

I forgot to close the window.

the cat meanders in
after his nap in the blue blanket still draped
over the armchair, he stretches big,
jumps to the east windowsill, and tracks a cardinal, pupils blown wide.

parting is such sweet sorrow. (2.2.188)

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lynn

2020-03-10 01:12 pm
my mother's trauma trailed behind me out of the womb, feet first.
her grief sticks to new skin like glitter.

death would be more glamorous than this.
how do i tell the woman who gave me life that i don’t want it no more?

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