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Tuesday, February 19, 2013



You wonder how my story
will end; it’s hidden not
in the chapters but in the 

heavy layers of the sentences,
the parts that are me, separated
by commas and semicolon; I feel 

as if I am dying, my life
leaking, seeping away yet
no sign of the comforting ellipses; 

for me there is no skipping over
the uncomfortable scenes, the nylon rope
of my childhood, the cold gunmetal of 

rape, the years I do not
count afterwards; they explain me
but yet the core of my being 

is in the parenthesis, described
as an aside, a side trip that
wholly defines me (you do not 

want me) and even as I look
towards the advancing days
my story is done.

February 2008

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