in the spirit of being hollow

every once in a while i like to prick
open my pores
cast a hook
and go fishing through my innards
 
i met a boy who enjoys jazz music and misogyny
he gave a me a blank notebook
and suggested i share with him
slivers of ink and memory
the only thing distinctly mine
 
it took me almost 12 hours to throw that notebook in the gutter
 
all i wanted was a bridge quicker than language
but i ended up taking the long way home
 
sure, it’s all been discarded
his lone touch like a fading note
of discord
 
but i don’t think i’ll ever be able to escape
that haunting reflection
of my own eyes in the mirror
 
the stark wonder if
maybe one day i’ll be polished enough for a shelf

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