If sounds could fill our deepest well that lies
beneath the caverns of heaving ribs,
buried deep, replacing oxygen
and filling up our alveoli
with the toxic gas of a dead line.
That these sounds could impair
our entire constitution, with one
note.
Halting and catching
snatching our breath away,
and leaving us wilted on
the floor or,
inside a closet,
barricaded by books and blankets.
Then I think it’s true,
that old habits die hard,
and my need to hide myself will die with me.
And that I could look at a list of names,
and be unable to extend my withered heart.
I think it’s true, then.
That
My well is full of the echo
of the anxieties surrounding a waiting call,
never ceasing.
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