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Maybe if we stop touching it, it won’t break.

Maybe, if, in the seconds before our eyes close we do not open them
- out of fear or compulsion -
Maybe it will not be as dark as we think.

Maybe I have conned you into believing I want to let go.
I am ruined.
Because I cannot stop.

But I cannot continue.
And so I sit immobile in my numbness, wrestling with the clogging in my chest that I must get tests for soon,

For it has been hurting so.

But the doctor, what to do when he checks and says

My malady

Is that my insides are not what they should be?
That I have a snow-globe of a heart.
Cold to the touch.

Isolated.
A little wonderland

That, when you shake it

Quake it

Flip it on its head and back around;
In that confusion

It waits

And when it gets a whisper of a moment
,
Shows you
 —
That all the jolting of the outside world
Only helps display its beauty.
I am afraid to be still.

I will be covered, then, in time

And you will forget me.
What then of these words?
Where will they live?
—











