small

the echoes of pain coarse through me
loud and adulterated
caustic, virulent
a murder in passive
tense
like tepid water steeped in staves
until the bag is removed and the trauma remains
a lemonade of piss
a cascade of sickness in death
apart
from claws at my throat are sticks and stones
it is not just words but their volume
builds in my bones
breaks them in half
holed
in my room with earplugs
punctured with holes in your logic
leak the essence of my childhood
until all that stands
stills
of our family lie in a circle
I remember the stars in my eyes when I saw you
no photo can contain the spinning constellation
reeling from the ache in my heart for you
too
much pain
in this war
come
and
gone

.

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