“I have opened it.”

–Alfred Tennyson’s last recorded words, October 6, 1892.

and letting her inner
child suddenly scream in
public, what became of
noise trapped:
an ode to tombs
in reverie reflected

marrow cage pinned beneath his
sex and a
a grab for steady wages,
three thousand pages of
unique rejections,
and my wrists are bound
together by a little
self denigration.
a noticeable attachment to water,
currents or anything that’s
a noticeable longing for windows.

my veneration for absence.
a noticeable longing for door knobs,
race tracks, wide open space
to act out the disordered thought.
my admiration for sadists
and what they take,
an unwavering self-beratement
tightening the joints of bone bars,
my masochistic streaks
and the interminable door
slamming shut.
less concerning to everyone
a child who paces the room in silence
hugging herself and her twisted straw,
murmuring at the walls
and a noticeable absence of
anything palpable; namely
them, fingers,


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