April 10, 2017
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I once wrote a story about a magenta horse
running across a frozen lake
I had it die
I liked the image: frantic limbs, a spear
The horse crumpling the ice with its lifelessness

When I screamed at my brother,
his nine years scrunched up into his red face
His monkey-like appearance was so striking
That I decided to keep his suffering
His tragedy could unfurl into a story someday

A girl dipped into her grandmother’s sorrows
won a competition with them spread out on a platter
I consider asking my mother for her sorrows
she is well acquainted with the gutter of life
but I don’t want to see her open
Or, in another word, broken

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