the first hour is the hardest.
my stomach sort of lurches
realizing the first wave has already hit
this is acid so it’s harder.
I take half a tab so
my doors won’t melt
but still I need to get out of a place
that is wall to wall carpet and
packed with scribble,
pillows, cat hair, journals,
some printed hexed postcards
creating a map  as
I chain myself to my five mirrors
not to be heard from for a whole year.
I grab eight stones and empty
everything else out of my bookbag.
I bring one water bottle.

I begin to walk with no
sound, letting minutes
weave themselves around my body as
I patiently walk down the
three flights  trying not
to be appalled by how crooked
the building was
or my sore knees or
the temperature of my men:
a reaching tepid
still present in a corner of
my head even on this journey.
I ignored the chipping bathtub
just to make it out the door.
I have a tendency to clean.
to organize.
to clean obsessively
frightened of the silverfish,
the water bugs.
I am remembering when I had bed bugs.
there are things I threw away in that
terrot that I will miss
I think as my skin leaps
down the steps.

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