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sing me to sleep
there are angry fragments of words
and damaged pieces of your
recoiled speeches littering
my living room.
i am now,
twisted at odd angles,
pigeon toed and crooked
from trying not to trip
over these sentences
on the floor.
they burned my hands
when i tried to
pick them up.
i am careful
not to touch them
anymore so i won't
fall to ashes like
everything else in the house.
i am all ears and ankles
when it comes to your lips;
tired ears and broken ankles.
i wait for the sound of
that old door, listening
for the rusted hinges that
use to sing me to sleep
because they meant
that you had come home and
even though now
they mean something different,
the floppy metal, the
sharp edge where i cut
my finger, they rattle
against the pillars, the knob
screams under the pressure
of your calloused palm and
i wonder if you've come to
clean up your mess
and make me straight again.
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