Wednesday, May 2, 2018

We’re Not Here Yet

Fragments of stories
Told, told, told, retold,
Redacted every telling,
Echo through my sleep.

They aren’t my stories.
They own me; I don’t own them.
Them, the key word in the spell.

“How do you know how to stop
Them?” “Because I remember.”
When I’m less certain
I narrate to myself

More. The skeletal
Hands that rise off the keyboard
Know it will still play, are sure.

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