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Poetry

Bruise

21 May 2018

The first time I came out of myself it was not how they had described.
A hum under the surface, weighted and distant.
I opened up and expected the drop
Expected to form another.
It was not easy; lying on synthetic carpet, eyes to beige walls.
This was when I was supposed to grow tough.
It was not a reformation.
It was raw.

I still find fibers in my thoughts when lost.

The second time was need above all else.
A transcontinental shed.
Acrid taste of vomit,
sweet barbecue tofu,
smell of wild orchid and tarmac freshly laid.
A body among warm wet concrete air.
I bubbled up this time.
Climbed out in small bursts.

I still feel sick in greenhouses.

Third chance I rest at the edges.
First time: a misleading phrase.
It implies a last
rather than a continuation.
I dip in and out of myself now,
come back for visits to taste clay
and let myself be still.
Bruised earth well heeled,
made in unrest.

I am no longer waiting for something more.

This is all.


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