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Slow burn

Sat with my feet on the opposite chair
Because the floor is cold
In my mind.

Elbows on the table
And my back pressed
Into the awkward angles
Of the front of the Rayburn.

It is only on simmer.

This cough is
Clearing the grief
From the depths of my lungs.
It is sticky and harsh.
It is clearing.

I cried today.
A wave swelled and broke
In the kitchen
And I span around like a trapped cat.
Scratching for an escape from
The big black dog.

I ran to my bed
Hoping Its softness
Would save me from the jagged edges,

But sharp blades are better.
The cut cleaner,
Heals without scars.

Or some other words.
That distract your eye.
From the glinting edge of that which separates.

From the fuzzy features
– Far out of focus –
That may be sad to see me go
Or may be thinking about other things.

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