when I was a child

nothing was more romantic
than becoming a serial killer
and nothing more disturbing
than getting married

obsessive thoughts muddled my mind
& at nights I enjoyed counting
popcorn on the ceiling as I
braced for a house fire

I threw a sleeping bag on the floor
ragged and worn, it held me
& I felt my anxiety melt
into a self-warmed slumber

the loneliness never consumed me
as books absorbed my mind &
my ego contorted into a mess of
centricity and shamefulness

even now there is nothing more
familiar than the cyclical embrace
of a constricting memory
wrapping round and round

or the repetitive
drone of the chicken song
it plays over and over in my head
for years

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