Every Word Here belongs to Someone Else

(an older poem of mine that is currently going through the revision train)


She is the one who texted me one night to say that she thought she might be dying.

She kept dreaming of a city built of soda cans and

popsicle sticks. She dreamt she was in love with a man who had

bottle caps for eyes. She dreamt that I wrote the epitaph

for her gravestone but I wrote it in some dead tongue that no one

cared enough to translate. She told me that she woke up angry with

me and I apologized for the dream-me; it had sounded like something

I might do in another life.

She’s the one whose car flipped twice across an icy road.

She always hated the cold .She was alone

on the coldest night of the year. She’s the one that they found with the

blood on her hair turned to ice. She couldn’t have felt her blood

stop pumping. She must have been so pale out there waiting to

be discovered. She’s the one in the ground. She is under my feet.

She has an epitaph picked out by someone. She’s alone and I

can’t read the words. She seems so far away carved

into stone.




*****And this feels like a good spot to remind everyone that everything on this site is Copyright CNC0. Reprint without permission, in whole or in part, will be frowned upon most sternly.


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