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March 21, 2016

PROMPT: Flashlight

you shone a torch in the creases of my cardboard mouth, searching for a second chance. but we've moved, and i've carried the weight of all my bedrooms like cradles, rocking back and forth between nicknames or numbers or long shouts down the hallway. somehow the glow-in-the-dark stars never shine even if i stare at their upward outlines.

(when it gets dark i don't turn the lights on- i run to the kitchen instead and sprint back, knees weak with bravado)

i don't think i ever told you that's where the weary are housed, where the lisp sinks and blunders through the waves, bobbing on foam moustaches - that's where the words take refuge after running through the fractals of my mind, you see. that's where the "goodnights" and "goodbyes" have stained- a floral patch moistened to form some inevitable shadow on our pillowcases. 

like damp sand on the coast. you will not guard against them with crossed arms, mark me; eyes guide my ships back to where our castles have fallen and see them wither, dredges at the bottom of every swirl. swing, hit, miss, go again: our memories shatter through like camera-shudders, family photos of ghost-powdered laughter that go unframed.

reflection, you say. glaring through like truth

too thick for eyes. 


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  • March 21, 2016 - 4:27am (Now Viewing)

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