A Question of Stability Nicole Itkin Tipping, I grab
onto the railing, trying to pull myself back up. I do. Don't worry, I do. I pull myself back. I grab it and, sure, it stays. It stays but it peels, it peels, and it peels until its coating is unrecognizable, blue to grey to ash to rust, decaying before my eyes and I ask myself what it was ever there for.
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Midnight Rhapsodies Nicole Itkin Grey hashes its way across the room,
over the covers of my bed, over and onto my eyelids. I notice, instead, the sauna of bodies the bodies the bodies convulsing in my ears, unable, refusing to let me go. convulsing, convulsing, creating, and spreading-- I can't, I can't resist the temptation to strangle them out, to cut them, to free myself in both day and night. I want to, I want to, but then I awake, knowing I've lost, lost, lost my chance. |
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