Ice Frozen Miscarriage

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Sometimes I imagine myself not plummeting,

but falling slowly,

spiraling

uncontrolled into the black;

the nonentity is dizzying and cold like outer space,

unsympathetic.

I’m only a miscarriage of

wishes and wisdom,

ice frozen,

looking for a comet

to start my heart—ignite some

fucking passion.

 

My brain feels itchy,

like heavy wet wool.

I’m not crazy.

I just want to

lift

the

latch

attached to my skull.

Open the hatch.

Get rid of the blanket.

 

I hate the day you were born.

The absence of you crushes me.


© 2019 Kindra M. Austin

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