celebrating alone in my mineral salts
and tears, how long I lit the candles.
how many candles did I light to this?
and all the wrought years,
to own.
black-etched marks throughout the
notes, tucked in pillows,
boxes, pants.
to own something.
to own something other than
lament. the loss that gives lament
her nudge,
a home.
a home.
my home.
and you hung

what’s more pleasing:, the salt lined doorway
proved me right. all who wish
me evil/gone are robbed of sight.
you’ve never set foot in this place

and you never ever will.

your black tassle swings
on knob of closet
like warning.
my step heavy
through the halls,


this next section is called 


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