The world keeps ripping off odds and ends

from my anatomy

my internal makeup

all that it is to be a self.


sending grasping fingers scrabbling wildly on skin

passing through the cage of my chest

squeezing particles of being and shaking them loose

to rattle around my bones until they’re discharged

and fed to the inexorable hungers of

–the needs of a lost little kid hellbent on destruction

–the unspoken, barely suppressed worry of a mother’s eyes

–the faceless demands of circling debts loans mistakes & regrets

–the terrors of a world that seems to be giving up on itself

–the insecurities of people focusing only on division (and of course multiplication)

**the warped internal civil war of a person who is her own salvation and her own worst enemy


each time, it costs me me more to hold it together with an increasingly patchworked soul.

I can name my paradoxes and rages, laments and glories,

And love myself for my flaws as well as my joys.

But how do I stand firm in the storm of life that is always reaching and grinding down

until it feels like there will be nothing left?


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