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Hypothalamus
My hypothalamus is haunting me.
An empty crib.
A bump that will never grow.
Love authenticity, you will always be a part of me.
A ghost in the hallways.
Your heart beat in my deepest quetiapine dreams.
A scan that will never show your sweetest echo.
Father, why would you make me bleed the love so pure?
I lost my voice from speaking you into existence.
He runs his fingers over my stomach my breath hitching, hoping yours is too.
My hypothalamus is haunting me.
Copyright ©
Molly Matchett
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