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Dear Beloved Dust,


I am told writing helps so here I am. Orders of head doc.      So.


Tonight I put Emilia to bed early and a cloud through the window snarled at me. Right now, outside the city wears her night like a scar: zippered to the chin, jacketed in bruised gospels. When I look down upon the street I see gutters breathing fog, the city underfoot all gasoline fume & grief-pussed. Everything is pale. Unremarkable. Nothing free of its flammability. Shadows swim through moonlight. People walk by with cardboard faces, cardboard grins holding hands, their hands more like shiny plastic gloves. A kite tangled on a sagging power line sneers, whips its tail at me. When I hear him clicking I run to console him. He is not there. My husband he thinks I’m not trying. All I am is trying. All there is is trying. Some mornings I think I can, I can, I can, and then: gravity strikes. We fall up into the sun. The sun is full of black snow. It swirls, fills us up with soft trauma. Please, teach me how to eat light? How the world outside wants so badly to go home, to say Yes while the world inside is always saying no no no nonono, & there is no love left to speak of here. Nothing left to lament save these unspeakable symphonies of the deaf.


Tomorrow I think I’ll try harder. Tomorrow the sky will swallow our slaughter whole. Tomorrow when I put Emilia to rise, through shredded curtains maybe a broken heart won’t hang impaled upon the moon?


Will write again soon.


Trust in dust,






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