Hiding here inside my closet, I feel safe in the dark
knowing on a pile of sheets lies my very psyche;
it's only a thought, yet I am unhurt among drawers…
so I curl and stare blank, imbibing bits of gentle
murmurings that whisper on hangers as they
sway with the lint...I strain to listen
but prickly voices rush out of reach
from the sleeves of a night
like a conversation behind closed doors…
I hear yet can't quite grasp
what my heart wants to say in low dips ;
like a tremolo carrying mould of twilight...
it chants all sermons of a Sunday church bell
speaking in tongues I knew once...long ago.
The moon slices the folds around me in black suds
washing a laundry of venting desire, only to find myself
trapped in pins…I feel a stab, a grating chill: perhaps,
I have no language when no one wants to listen.
Don't write for the contest, Contest
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