As ever deserving a wider audience and so …
Tucked in neatly like a dress shirt;
my grief stays put, until I get home from work.
Properly labeled and shelved like hurt in stock,
the mark you’ve left is kept
until the next time I put on some music and get drunk alone.
Like a cross concealed by clothing
because your beliefs are nobody’s business but your own,
how long I carry this torch is between myself and God.
Like a habit sheathed in solitude,
my suffering is a private event hosted in stolen moments
between conversation and company,
behind jokes and impulse purchases.
Because how much I drink about you
is between me and my liver until it fails.
Like a disability masked by artificial limbs,
every laugh and smile may just be a parlor trick
that’s harder than it looks.
I may walk the rest of my life with a limp,
but I won’t introduce…
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