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/My Own Heart

Forcing a smile, straining

To conjure stomach butterflies,

So they would stop staring.


I discovered I could

Not create that which is only

Converted, and I could not

Convert that which has never been



Twine suspends me in a frame.

It punctures my skin

And stretches.

An intention is something that negates

The action. It turns epidemic

Into individual and enables

Unjust acquittal.

/Untimely Death

I fear on occasion
That the car will stop
Too late, and snap my bones
Into slivers before driving away.
And there will be no one around to run
A pen across paper to record the words 
Of the license plate.

/Everything Else

Each night when the clouds hide
The only moon we have, I cry
And think that I won some cosmic lottery,
Like in that story. What is the name
Of that disorder you have?
What are the odds of that
Particular brand of broken?

©Kaylee Schuler

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