I am outside of myself
But inside my house.
I say my house because
it has become my house.
The water boils in the kettle
The lavender in the bucket.
I clean my floors like they smell of my poor eyesight.
There is sand on the floor.
ominous, yet so familiar.
The house smells like smoke
Good smoke
My mother's gone
so it is all good smoke
Old yellow lines in the teeth of the story
I have to finish potting the plants outside
The leaves sit in the shade
The blood galvanizes the knife
Chopping onions has its days
Mirrors cleaned and they are empty
Children reflecting disdain for the ordinary
Felines break the edges
we are looking down from disgrace
How they never tell you the height of the high from falling
The view is great
an almost poetic sight of inferiority complexes and squiggly lines
Tell them you forgot your lighter
Press your cold wet head against the narrative and
Tell them you forgot your lighter
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