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draft ii. help me.

peeling off the stars

February 10, 2019


i used to plaster stars to my bedroom walls
little green monsters
spikes like snaring claws
they shot about when my eyelids closed,
lamented like hummingbirds—
too quick to see, too pretty to stay.
i was lulled to sleep by their
whispering shadows;
the night sky seared into lucid visions
the galaxies present atop stiff peaks
painted, as if by van gogh, in my wildest dreams.
it’s funny, really,
because the stars that stare are from an eon ago
and they say time’s not present when you’re looking at spacetime—
but why did my world still spin?
the time increased, and
no longer did i hear the stars
it was not the voices here that mattered
it was out there:
the shouts lashed at one another like gobs of lightning
slashing food fights
my mother’s screaming face, cream on her cheeks
my father, taking fistfuls of electricity from the gods
plunging thunder deep into the air like zeus;
panic flew like a housefly
and van gogh’s landscape appeared before me
but the great curls of the starry night
had turned to my mother’s angry lips.
and so i peeled off my stars, one by one
to let the shouts scream me to sleep
and their greenish corpses littered my trashbin
they were carried to the dumps
where they slid into the sky.
i thought i still might feel them
glowing up my insides
filling the gaps
where the voices tore me
but it was an illusion
they were gone:
i had peeled my heart away.


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