The poems escape me now in some horrible
Con I brought about then forgot;
an awful drought of thought
God must have cast upon me since I stopped believing
Or
Rejected his meaning in the grand scheme of things
Maybe I just loved you until my blood ran dry
Who knew a phone call could make my stomach fall through
Like I did, when I was clumsy as a kid
and forgot the Speck's tree house had a trap door so I
tumbled to the whims of a ladder lying below,
tumbled to the whims of a ladder lying below,
Twisted little limbs bent between its rungs
Knocked down and dumb and then,
Bruises bloomed on the sides of my hips and all across my back.
For weeks I carried them
As I carry you still.
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