Wordle #282

282

My blood is cold and shrill
like old bath water.
It smells like the inside
of a child’s piggy bank
and I wish it were someone elses’
so that I did not have to scrub so hard.

I circle the square room,
exit and ingress perfectly spaced.
The days have grown queer and short
I shred them into riddles,
they are not the truth
and neither am I.

We are torn in places,
though I could not specify where
or at what precise moment
those tears became absences
too colossal to stitch.

My senses shrug,
a draw between evils.
It took me too long to peak.
What ribbon did I chase?
What substance-less virtue?
I have seen it,
the cadaverous blue
of a world gone mad
the proud, the idle, the dispossessed.

My smile crackles at the edges.
My singed tongue coils and retracts.
Cinders flicker in the air
like mating fireflies
whenever I chance to speak.

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7 responses to “Wordle #282

  1. I really loved reading the “inside of a child’s piggy bank” line, it was so creative and fun to imagine and fiddle with the image and metaphor in my head. The whole poem is amazing!

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