The worst thing about being?
That unswerving assumption you can’t see
The sweeping beneath the carpet;
the lumps that lie there become mountains -
In the corner of your retina you watch them -
Your corneas scraped
By every new harsh-toned phrase
Or lie
Beaten back by a brush as though it
was never said –
But in your head
It fills the cracks; the fibres in the wool grow
pointed with the shape of it
Cairns of a grudge
So when the rug’s pulled out from underneath
You’ve been here already
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