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I ransack the

closet of my childhood nightly

in REM, then

half stages

of a full-on sweaty sleep.

Swipe left, then right



throw over and down the stairs to the gravel

kick across the curb, up an alley

towards a beat up, wonky

sideways street.

What is bared and ripped and torn open

is left to shrivel and dry like a garbage

can of week old leafy greens

reeking with tepid anger.

I rifle through drawers of ungrateful, shoe

racks stacked with fake wooden three-inch heels

high of guilt and regret.

Skinny wire hangers draped in you’ve been lucky.

Scarves tied in neat knotted up words of

only sluts stay out past ten?

Neatly pressed trousers

hiding the word whore in a back pocket

where have you been?

I wrinkle it up in a ball and toss them away all

over again.

They come back like chunky Gap sweaters and

acid washed jeans

held up by belts like beatings swaying

on nailed rings.

Tough skin made from hate that came

before you

now buried deep in plastic-cased memories

and journals of hand-written sin.

I close the door nightly and start over again.

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