We were born to starve ourselves away from loving arms;
we were born to slowly be digested by words.
We fight our minds.
Your bedroom might as well have been an attic for all the purposeful steps one must take to reach the state of isolation we desire -
to quiet the soul, to rest forever, a taste of death.
I can see you swinging from the ceiling.
I tied a rope around a curled pin that used to hold a swing set;
I made your death bed.
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