Every Other Day

This chipped paint, the missing trim

The faint, black fingerprints left in the ceiling

Where you hung the wrong light

This is my song

The mother that did not love me right

Seeing too much of her own mother reflected in my eyes

Fathers that had already

Given up the fight, too spent

To match the drawers of socks thrown

Across a threadbare comforter

(I forget, from searching for his eyes)

Peals of laughter thrown across

The dust of thinning cloth

Gasps melting beneath

Shattered breath

When I got up in the night to imagine you

Leaving with a birdcage, as I clamped onto your leg

The foil had already done its work

The bird, already choked dead

And I was singing horror stories my stepsisters

Told me over breakfast

Our minds are made up in the moments

When no one is looking

In the quiet hallways where we count

The beats of silence

Staring at empty door frames full of

Expectant light and

Measuring out the notes

Of our own quiet ghosts

In the hall

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