and i try to swim in it, try to bury
myself with the mirth, cover the other
feelings over with layers that will be
stripped off painfully, one by one, later
on in the evening.
sometimes it is bad. it is the mocking
laughter of a schoolyard full of children
who hate you. they point with scorn at
the tender, bleeding places in your life
and in their laughter you hear the sound
of your own failure.
then Ms Hoskins rattles pots and pans in
the kitchen and i know it is time for me
to go and clean the kitchen.
that would be right now.
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