a series of different sized sticks leads this caravan of caretakers as i wonder who believes it’s choice that led them here.

the rain feels like a mother pulling me to her bosom, stroking my hair, and giving me permission to give sound to what i’ve allowed silence to do to my soul but all i can muster is a soft whimper, something that if overheard sounds like little more than a tickle in my throat.

the sober parts of me have given up and left the remaining cards to be played by the drunkard so disillusioned with solitaire that she believes someone else holds the win. it rains for her too but she’s not like me. she closes the windows and curtains, turns on the music, and self-harms until she hears nothing, not even me, my face to the sky and mouth held open gurgling to invite the drowning.

part of me wants to take off my clothes and walk past each vehicle as if all is as it should be, but i would be sent away in a straight-jacket and shackles, my face would be splattered on the news for two seconds, my name would make the rounds at dinner tables and much speculation would be made about my sanity, ability to mother and citizen.

they will pop a handful of red pills and go on about their seemingly self-regulated evenings in agony as the truth digs into the bottoms of their feet like glass shards of alice’s height and i will be more forgotten than if i had remained in this chosen caravan of false air and rancid surrender in a slice of nothingness easily brought to its knees in fear of seeing the horrors etched into my naked skin that they might recognize the engravings in their own.

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