pulling weeds

watching the world through clouded, fish-thick waters
with eyes seared shut by something so awful you don’t remember it happening
like with dreams you didn’t hold on to tight enough
Inside,
the little voice that usually contemplates knocking out the kitchen wall to open up space
and coos away thoughts of the tens of thousands of future dollars in cost with assurances
that we’re going to live here decades more, after all
is now just a panicked chorus on repeat
of we can’t go back, we can’t go back, we can’t go back, we can’t go back

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