I get scared about being scared.
Thirty after midnight, a quiet day
broken into tweets and worries
laced up with undercurrent blue.
I don't want forever snapping
my eyes to the sky before day.
Next week, next year,
August and September together
between my ribs and my spine.
Feels like drying into bonedust
waiting for eternity to shed
its water upon me, mix me to mud.
White and wet.
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