grief called home, stood in the kitchen with its hands on you. the doors remain open. sense memory lays the carpet dusty rose. phrases don't land how you expected. you pluck words for the mothering project, they fill the shape wrong. the changes to the house are cosmetic, they don't remove voices from its bones.
i reach into the portal instead of sleeping
as sleeping's gotten too complex again. what did i think i could eat her words and then empty out? the beast stays with me, low to the ground so when i get down our eyes meet. my knots blink. my skull tucks in a flame. i walk until my hips get tight and then loose again, that old trick where you know something will change because it has to. alice wanted a daughter, didn't even show a palm of an objection when the beast stood up. i am the ghost now in all of alice's stories.
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