We hear (27 July)

tangled plaques these twisted words,
rebelling at their limits like some
helium-filled story longing to be
unwound, untold, exasperated in a
single rush of exhaustion.

cannot find the beat where truth
first glanced fiction, abandoned the map.
cannot scratch off the coating that
formed when in that pulsing instant
memory was a second thought.

embraced in these miseries,
until they are no longer ours,
until by sharing pain we mute
throbbing secrets into
cracks in solitude’s lonely walls.

suddenly they are only quoted moments
because telling a story
makes it your story
untangled with that first breath:
“this is what happened.”

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