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I’d scratch her eyes out
if only I could
replace them
with my own
so maybe then there would be
something in her that knew
how to cry for you
knew what it was
to feel
something crack
at the thought
of seeing you walk away
I’d like to gift her these
pale blue bloody things of mine
twist them into her
one by one
until she knew the pain
that watching you leave can bring
reduce her to a thing
that can only look at her feet
and wonder where you’ve gone
look at the walls
that couldn’t contain you
look until she’s all but blinded
by the glare
off the vacant space
that is so much larger
than it would seem
you could have ever filled
leave her to see
all the places you aren’t
let her take it all in
until she could only
press her empty hands
to those eyes
and try
to block out all
that should be there and isn’t
to create a darkness
big enough to hide your absence
to stem a bleeding
that never seems to stop
of course
if I gave her mine
I’d have hers in return
and I probably
wouldn’t much care
Writer’s Block VI

Today my mind is like
a grocery store sheet cake
smooth and white and waiting
to commemorate an
as-yet unspecified occasion
and all it should take
is a few bits of information
a name
a sentiment
a choice of two colors
and a bit of controlled pressure
on the piping bag
for there to be spelled out in vivid
(please circle: red/orange/yellow/green/blue/purple)
You Aren’t Dead Yet!
edged with balloons

there’s a box on the half-price shelf
with an unreadable message
and a thing that maybe was
supposed to be a horse
or a Corvette
and the baker decided
to take that cashiering job at the gas station
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