the
sound of torn fabric
I
ripped
too
many masks off
beloved
faces
to
explain to myself
that
I still believed
in
the dark
I
can smell
every
part of me
in
my raw
anticipation
splayed
out
bound
to the open
windows
where I've wanted
to
leap from
into
another seed husk
set
of wings
those
quiet bent
retreats
from the spotlight
that
come
when
I discover
the
phantom
of
every opera
is
in the mirror
watching
me
get
nearer
the
truth
that
claws
time
into
an
open
wound
EJR
(c)
*first
line prompt by Diana Matisz
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