You begin the day in lather, scrubbing long-ignored corners of the dusty double-wide trailer in the New Mexican expanse. Listen to music composed to carry people across the ocean, to let them look for answers though none are to be found. The duhkha permeates your struggle to clean the desert, as though the grains of sand are not uncountable. You do not relent, you are not yet ready. She sends you an article about a writer excising her demons by writing them out in children's stories and you tell her you are not yet ready to unleash your demons on a character so young.
You are too busy giving these characters the safety you did not have.
There are parasites latched to the back of your heart. If you pull them out now, if you pull them out before the walls of your heart are think enough, you will only bleed out.
This is how scar tissue protects,
in more ways than one.
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