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9,11,13: Mother Odd

living days like
faulty sequences, etched in ruins to carve out
what is and what isn't
how to think? Follow the shadows that tell me when,
but not why.

i hear it clearly, the call of my mothers
'good night children'
alongside her perpetual praying, internal screaming as the word
of God comes into my ears.
my mother lived a good life, she prayed in sets of two
but daddy called upon the number 7
and maybe that's why i ended this way.

I used to walk around the corner with
my hands slung around your waist. in my
mind you are pixelated; there is no clear
image.

Yet I feel wind slicing into my face.



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