it’s in the build up 

pressure on the rise 

nails penetrating 

deeper and deeper 

breaking skin 

digging into flesh 

made to feel lost 

in the swirl of unscented 

dryer sheets spinning 

until I can’t find which way to turn 

the cycle on high heat 

when I need delicate to take the lead 

because I can’t help but miss 

not having 

a card to send 

a flower to give 

a smile to share 

a call to make –

the line on the other end is dead – 

as the nail causing 

this bloody blazen 

of grief


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