TheFeatheredSleep – The truth of what is felt will out.
What does one do in order to feel?
Not the safe kind, sanitized by Clorox wipe
left to garner in sun until just right temperature
palatable and convivial like a well heeled aunt.
No, I mean the bloody kind
coming at night, knocking your flippin socks off
just as you got used to living in a box, neat beige walls
knowing how you felt because you didn’t let it out
to crawl around and get dirty, muddy, sodden, feral
where feelings elongate into shadows and back again
tripping us up, as we shuffle to the bathroom for midnight piss.
Those feelings, the ones hammering your heart shut
as you open windows in the morning, anguish
and agonies unnamed, pour out into sore tongued dawn
you can’t even speak it, you can’t get the lump to dislodge
from your tightening throat, it’s like a scream has purchased
hooks and they’re pulling…
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