I know inside you are screaming.
the rings around your heart-pulsate
your memories of them lost-now
all you have left are the stains
of children's well-meaning finger-tips
and cut spidery-web veins.
singing. swallowing. stuck.
A voice inside you leaps out.
and now you want to pound out
a list of real names, and
paint real faces-like a lineup
of who did it-apologize,
half-rolled down window-body
half out-yelping what happened to that
16 year old girl who was happy to
feel the night air on her bones-
with eyes cast high welling
looking at trees. looking at
Tickle your toes. . .
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