and I’m mad at God for every season
that brings the
buried back.
you still creep around my edges
like the roots of a birch
shedding, but always
present and thriving in places
hidden to the world at large.
I can feel your silent steps,
I can feel your body crossing the
garage.

you still know my home real well,
my fetal curl, my pillow smell,
and you still visit me,
my ever longing service bell;
hold me tight at night
like one long,
steady
choke.

“letters to exes”

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