for brenda, once

This is new.

I’m not used to this kind of mess, but it sits around us, she says she doesn’t mind. Sometimes I’m still learning how to sit still in messes. Thinking of them in swirls. Inside I set the scalpel down. I used to slice emotions into such

clean

neat

things. Remembering when the earth was grey. Remembering the time I couldn’t breathe because everything was so beautiful. Remembering in colors. Thinking with hands, swirling around. Our mess is calm, and on the floor, and feels like paint.

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