Writing – 2017

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The desk next to mine is empty now.

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There’s nothing that doesn’t hurt:

my hands, my head, my knees,

the bottoms of my feet,

my chest and that spot in my stomach

that aches with sharp pain sometimes,

and that raw, scraped out feeling.

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He grabbed my knee and shook it

Rocking me, curled in on myself

“You have to hang in there,”

he said,

“You just have to hang in there.”

In the face of that,

in the face of not being told

that everything will be fine

I could only promise I would.

But on the way home,

my scraped-raw knuckles against the door of the train

Someone asked,

What happened?

To your hands,

what happened?

And I said,

I can’t do this.

I can’t do this anymore.

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