Locked Up
Some of us opened the closet to find our father’s clothes hanging there.
To our surprise,
so was our father.
So we burned it all in a
Genocide of clothing.
As if they were to blame.
Now there is no happy poetry for us.
Now our eyes only look outward.
Now we are pretenders pretending,
that we don’t still see him hanging.
That there are no bones in the closet.
We don’t mind.
We’d rather be children disintegrating from within.
There’s no one hanging in the closet.
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