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[there are a lot of poems i have yet to write—] [—there are a lot of things i have yet to admit]

By Jordyn Damato

and there's a poem in that. You, asleep on my bedroom floor

because you don’t trust our bodies pressed together in a bed

is a poem tucked deeply within itself. When I was a curious

and cautious child and broke lighters open to play with the fluid:

poem. And when I hid the evidence under my sister’s pillow,

her rage the next morning was dressed like a poem. I can run

a mile in maybe 11 minutes if I try really hard and maybe

that’s a poem better left unwritten. When I tell you everything

is fine, the line so overused, I am already writing a new poem.

How much you love Christmas music: poem. How much you love

to laugh in my face: poem. Me wringing out my hands

to drain the sweat you left behind: a damp poem I never

wanted to write. I sleep with my glasses on. I chew

on ice. I’m jealous of my carpet. My words are all I have left.

@vergecmu

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