Enero, 19

Do not allow yourself to worry,
worrying is such a meaningless
loss, the heater simmering at home
while everyone’s out, what mother called
a poor waste of electricity.
Do not worry. The hands reaching out
for you in sleep are not a monster’s,
nor your mother’s, and not mine. The voice
you now hear in your head suggesting
a course correction, sudden left turn
into the oncoming lane, that voice
is none of them… no, not even me.
I’ve left our days behind, call them now
nothing more than a failed project,
some old paper covered in red ink
and marked with a D. Something I’m sure
to throw away the next time I clean.
Don’t worry. I’m channeling that vibe
no longer. There is no more chanting.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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