Now
Jen Schalliol
I am the stupid one.
I used to have pride. Now
I am reduced, ordinary,
normal red flows through
my veins. Gravity clings.
I bend, I branch, I pine
for your little window
opening into my day,
your door jamb tripping
up my life, your hell
raised. Your car
wreck. Your noose
and death mask. Now
I want the guarantee—
dated, dealt—
that you will be totaled
when I walk.
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