wasted life

I should be in awe of everything living

The sharp knife of breath

The dull kick of heart

A temporary thing to worship.


Instead I tongue worry around the back of my mouth,

Afraid to leave footsteps because everything is quicksand,

Afraid to knock too hard, in case the door is opened.

These nightmares are both new and inherited, the skeletons at the back of the closet.

They come with this house of history, history which is just yesterday saying “I was”

but being alive is by definition present tense

how can you fear something brand new?

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