twenty four hours

by Kristie Shoemaker

morning; little moths are waking up and kissing each other within my insides. they don’t view this as a prison and neither should you.

afternoon; i have your eyes on repeat circling through my head. my body feels like a volcano erupting for the first time in ten thousand years. this span of time means little when i think about your hands. dormant no longer, don’t be afraid.

evening; rolling waves of hunger crash throughout an empty cave. i deny this pleases the moths and shout to the sky ‘stop fading so fast, don’t go down.’ there is only an illusion of absence and everything is mostly okay.

night; i am covered in a layer of feeling that is dead to the world. i will pick it off and scatter it beneath my feet. if you were born without eyelids you haven’t missed a thing.

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