Stephanie Bennett-Henry – Some washed hands
The truth is hard sometimes, like a dark room always circling with a cold draft, and we call to the shadows or we look away from the ghosts. I’m talking about the room that has a thousand blankets, the one with so many arms offering to hold you, the room with windows full of sunlight and perfect views, but yet nothing can warm you. It’s as empty as anything I have ever known. This room, with its frozen center, is the one place we linger into, where the doors and windows lock behind us. That room. If you’ve been there, then you know, not even god can open the door. Not even knee-pleading, raw knuckles, empty-throat screams aimed towards the sky can save you. It’s the room of your own mind, where your heart goes to die. And there’s nothing pretty about the slow death that seeps in, chews away…
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