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Poem

The building is white,
ivy eating its way up the broken walls,
windows small
and scratched.

Poem

She is not here.
Not beside me in bed
nor in the room
at all.

It has happened

Poem

This is my story.
It is mine alone because I am the one who needs
to tell it.
I am the one who is still here,
no longer stage right but

Poem

I am on the bathroom floor
screeching,
Tippi shaking me back into the world.