Hidden In a Closet
cleat-like fonts amass into scaffolds,
choke a page, tumble
to the next, until a journal cries out
in bloat and smudge.
such a spiral-bound notebook.
it wobbles like a limp frisbee,
flaps under dirty clothes
in a closet’s moth-eaten throat.
its slush pile of penciled guts
bristles with secrets of personal hurt:
lust sobbed; monsters inflicted;
care bright yet vulnerable.
so many stupid, flawed young hopes,
all expressed so wrong. trite or jabberwocky.
then mauled by a gryphon,
wings of marred paper,
never to fly, never to matter.
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