Dead

The dead space of my sorrow
Has its own nervous system
It keeps my self at an arm’s length
It numbs my proprioception
Until I don’t know the
Back of my hand
It is a shallow grave
Dug with regret
Covered with promise
The dead space of my sorrow
Is a punctured chorion
Around an overdue threshold
Bleeding itself dry

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2 thoughts on “Dead”

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