hello,
i think i scream your name
in my sleep,
because my mother keeps
asking who you are.
she looks at me with knitted brows
and a hand halfway orbiting
my shoulder.
i think she is afraid to touch me,
and her eyes look a little funny
when she says your name-
it sounds so wrong, thick and congealed
as it spills from her tongue and
over her teeth.
i want to ask her what i've been saying-
have i been screaming?
murmuring?
sobbing?
i don't know if i should know,
but her half-painted pink fingernails
hover and tremble midway between us,
and i keep thinking that it is the
same for you and for me;
we are simply drowning and all of nothing
is enough in this graveyard sea.















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