Burying Bones

There’s a chill stuck in my marrow.

A disquieting shiver holding court in my tarsals.

Pile on the layers.

Stuff on the stuffing.

Bury, bury, bury my bones in wool—

But Anxiety is a cold fire

Freezing all as it burns.

Well, that’s a depressing splat of spit-up.

Burp rag, anyone?

Until tomorrow…


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