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CCXCIII

February 28, 2014

Today I feel as if my stomach is
a raisin, held suspended in the cave
that is my empty body. Where its shape
historically filled, a pain resides—
a shapeless pain; as if a blanket could
be pain—surrounding, holding, close,
it fills the cavity beneath my ribs.
A tendril of the blanket reaches to
my head as well, but there it holds no pain,
just cotton: filling up my nose and mind,
and teasing slimy worms to ooze their way
like fungal lava down the ceiling of
my mouth and drip into the shrunken tube
that once I called my throat.

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One Comment leave one →
  1. March 3, 2014 9:27 am

    Gross!

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