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this blurring of days leaves the mind too open for day-trips and visits to graves no longer tended by mourning. once upon a time i thought it possible to drink away the memories but all the alcohol managed to do was philander my heart’s lingerie which back then was made of silk, war camps and co-dependency.

i’d look you up on christmas morning while my eyes were still blurry with the non-existence of sleep. later i’d see the news and not know which newspaper’s reality to avoid while despairing upon whether my tears were worthy to be shared.

out of nowhere i’d remember the time she pushed me into her bedroom closet and pinned me down with her body weight and told me to hush. i was little more than bones and it felt like she was breaking me into tiny pieces. with just enough courage to whisper the word ‘stop’ she told me to shut up, that it would feel good as my body went stiff and my mind begged maggots to eat my thoughts and god to take my body.

she’d taken me to boxing practice earlier that day and hit me with a gloved fist when i wasn’t even in the ring. so shocked by emotional pain i didn’t hit back even as blood dripped from my nose demanding retribution. my aunt’s psychotic daughter still haunts me without knowledge or effort.

to this day i don’t understand why she hated me and it would be fair if not impossible to admit i spent a few decades wondering why so many wanted to fuck me in anger whilst trying to convince me it would be enjoyable, thus leaving little of me that felt capable of being loved for loves sake and even less that knew where to start.

a touch of vulnerability too despairing to turn into song is now a vase holding the lyrics of a flower that swam against the current and lost itself to the fragrance of selfishness. on the walls, down the halls, near the bed and in poetry still unwritten and unread.

why am i surrounded by so many flowers?

to prove the air around me is beautiful, that logic might dictate man is what he breathes and that the soul can find protection in the fragrance of nature.

no one comes out of the closet the same person, regardless the lures that led them there in the first place.

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