opens violet and blue, a flower
lush in sorrow, planted in the crib
of youth. the moon spills
its sour milk down me. it curdles
in my belly as i listen
to the argument burn below.
the gases rise up the stairs,
seep beneath my door,
they singe my moonlit lungs.
their liquored curses stain me
like the wet sheets, yellow
and cold in the morning.
the bright pinch of ammonia,
its memory simmering up, even now
at this age, into vapors of shame.
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