one for hiding under beds.

Posted on 13 February 2010

You’ve left Dorothy in chiffon and beaten. Last year the magazines extended
your subscription for being a valued customer. Daily vitamins are stored in
moisture resistant canisters and sweaters are packed with mothballs. You’ve
eaten in your closet with the sweaters. Sandwiches, alone, and a nursery
rhyme about pretty maids in a row. They say “bone soup.” There’s an Asian
root shaped like a heart. Tragic stories lack bathroom scenes. You say
fucking feels alliterative, Tetris blocks falling at increasing speed.
You’ve held babies and lost orgasms. Faith, blanched. TV’s on. The ocean
never looked bigger.


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