I scold my dog in the voice of my ancestors
they would smile at my commands to heel to sit and stand, like salute or koutou to paw and touch when startled to leave it, I said leave it, when the outsider's temptations appear to wait at the door, to be the last one through to drop when holding what is wanted to down when overcome with joy to off when warmth is needed to out when I am hurting to out when I am nauseous to out when I am broke to out when I am lonely they would nod approvingly when no command is needed for stay
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I feel responsible for the end of the world today.
No metaphor, killed a live vaccine kind of way. Stuck a vein wrong and had to redraw. Any way I insert the needle leaves a bruise. Or wrote a script wrong, made the cough worse, in a way. A doctor once said, medicine has no room for error. Which is another way I know I'm out. Built a bed frame, clicked
struts into platform, brushed foam flakes and test anxiety from knit button down sweater—yeah, I wear knit button down sweaters—god, I feel twenty two years old. I feel every snap and creak, turn with every screw, rail at the missing leg caps and empty rooms in my soul and when at last the mattress explodes over the iron skeleton I'd molded I press my past into the memory foam and hope I'll sleep better from now on |
KatA young adult. Archives
April 2020
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