March 10, 2004

A promise, yes. A promise.
Never kill yourself, I promise dear mother.
She looked down the slope of the cliff and wished she had a sled.
flying was never easy and jumping made her head twist.
There were two bottles sitting on the table, one rattled the other sloshed.
Ignoring the sloshing one, she grasped the rattle, and, walking like a toddling two year old, proceeded to take one and fall into a sleeping stupor.
She wakes.
the evening is lost in a dark blanket,
her face is lost and her eyes make no sense.
Simple sayings,
slammed into skin, scarring.
Plastered promises and pristine plasticine.
It’s not prosthetic surgery.


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