You light another cigarette. Drink your coffee in the garden. Pull your regrets around your shoulders as if they were a blanket. As if they’ll save you from the cold.

Autumn winds play with skeletal leaves. They skitter about your feet like discarded paper- like stillborn poetry. Your eyes are caught by a bright patch of moss and you struggle to keep it in focus. Your thoughts pile up like carcasses, and everything is dying. Everything is dying.

A small dog yelps in the distance. The cup burns your lap.

You are not sure how long you’ve been crying. Perhaps two minutes, perhaps two years. The black hole in your stomach wants to eat the world when it’s finished with you. By your side weeps an angel you will not allow into your existence and she fears that black hole will swallow her, too.

The leaves continue their dance. The world turns away from the light.

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art of trauma
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