Medicine

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I wake up to the sound of mid-afternoon and the smell
of decay. It seems that the ground is never colder than
when my feet are unaccustomed to it, and my
hand drags, like a dancer, injured, along the wall.
it is a reminder I am afraid to admit I need.
I look at myself and decide that the mirror
is a friend who likes to gossip, and my face
is a mirror masquerading as a friend.
All of this means nothing, and I leave the same way I
entered. One meal a day is enough for mice and men
and I fall somewhere in between. I am empty and
swollen, like a cyst that needs cauterizing, and time
passes like shuffling cards in hands that are too
clumsy, and don't remember how to play.
Seeing is a double edged sword with a bend in the
middle. Outside my window wind chimes tangle
themselves mutely, and I recognize this movement
as a pattern of "sooner or later."
I linger on this thought.
I am not sure what to do with it.
When I finally close my eyes it is dark and empty,
but dark and empty are words I can define. My
tongue caresses their letters, swallowing a little
ball of nothing, like a pill. It sits softs and warm
in my throat, and I wait patiently for it to dissolve,
and be digested.

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