routine Zoie Mull drafty house Sarah Ali
day breaks like glass shattering. i broke a bowl when i was young.
walls to a home for a child i’ve yet to carry you salvage yourself tearing apart the drywall shredding the insulation who needs this shade of red there’s no baby here to call this home it’s god-awful why does it hurt so much why does making myself a home hurt worse
opaque white and pure, the porcelain burned new fingerprints over the labyrinth of my previous skin and into that of a hardwood floor. burnt air made home on my tongue. Tyler was there and got Super Glue. impure. broken. small pieces. we thought it could be glued and the dishwasher dismantled it to prove a point. like it was so full of beauty it just had to break. reverberating, the ugly sound of an end is a flat shatter. i take the broken bowl and reassemble my body. baby’s going insane. i’m going to do this every day under our stupid star. i read a poem and i’m ok again. je suis désolé the sun apologizes for itself and i hear day break once again.
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