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internal monologues to bridget

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staring out past the tentacles
of streetlights swallowing up darkness
like silver-ringed octopi

to shadows cast by dim computer light
and initials carved red into white plains
(cicatrix faded but never truly gone)
I forget the sky’s palette of blue-black

when i think of ballet-bruised legs,
birthday banana bread, honeysuckle swelled
around paper-thin wrists, coconut coffee

at midnight, when you are asleep, alone
and not dreaming of me. imagination
is a slippery satisfaction, fleeting like
falling icicles or your syrupy shampoo

in crowded classrooms, where grazed elbows
are quickly withdrawn and shared smiles
mean nothing (to you)

and you always knew





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