Friday, February 5, 2016

my therapist tells me to write everyday until i love 
my words again, it is working. my therapist tells me 
that i like birch trees because they have scars too,
each poem feels like brushing dust off a fossil, my fingers are
longer, somehow, more refined like an archeologist's toothbrush, i am 
bruised as if all the bad blood is desperately trying to escape, rejected by
this clean thing. i had to 
dig in order to find the marrow of myself, 
in the dust.

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