void (2)

and the poems aren't real
but are only reactions to the world
and the name of your savior
tastes like ashes


i am eleven years old and
running a fever
in a room heavy with the reek of
cigarettes and alcohol

my father stands in the doorway
and tells me
this is all your fault
and the words stay with me
for twenty four years

and i sit in a different house at
someone else's table and
put them on paper for the first time
and what they sound like
is defeat

what i hear is
the baby crying in another room

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