Monday, July 28, 2014


i'd collect all your old pillow cases- the
wrinkled balls shoved in the corners of your closet that
smelled too much like her neck to keep or to 
throw away
[so they sit in romantic purgatory, a Guantanamo of young heartbreak that
makes you so uncomfortable to remember
that you downright 
refuse to
and imprison your 15 year old heart in the house you
grew up in but no longer feel 
any connection to]; 

i'd collect the starched square 
folded ones, clean and cold and noble
in their precise emptiness- like unused napkins or
retired flags.
i'd collect the used ones,
warm with breath and worn 
nearly to the strings from head tossing and nightmare clenching,
the gentle smell of sweet sweat in the morning after hours of 

the pillow cases that speak; "i was there when she
got her wisdom teeth out" 
"i braved the winter of 2003", 
the pillow cases that once held 
Halloween candy for your tiny hands or hid
a bottle of Smirnoff Ice from your parents or 
lasted through 3 apartments before catching bleach spots
and being thrown out somewhere in Brooklyn.

the pillow cases that are completely 

i am a tornado, i am the flu, i am the picnic table that gouged a scar above
your right eyebrow, 
this is your warning,
you will never be the same in the places i have touched.

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