still messed up about metro- still feeling sad, still wishing he’d miss me, still missing him. still in pain, still feeling pitted from nicorette being swooned over by him. he was kissing her in every wholesome, swallowing way he could. i woke up with him turned to the other side, and under my blanket with the yellow flowers.  we had just gone to bed- 7.a.m; the light was full and covering the room.

i didn’t do my assignment. i didn’t do my poem for class on time. i read part of marie howe’s what the living do, and i hurried through a graph designed to inflect images from “The Lonely Street”.

i could cry. if i keep writing, then eventually the wear will tread out of me. i wrote my poem past the due date, about my brother. it was beautiful, but when i read it back, i wanted to be back with metro. i want to call him by his real name, say it a hundred times, but i can’t.


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