by, Miss Polar

Your fingers curl differently, he said
so I frantically look for that page again
Where did it open
before the storm came?

More than I’d like to admit
for everyone that stumbled
I hoped they’d stay till the end

here are the mundane
the tongue twisters
parts that don’t make sense
Here are the demons
the buried dreams
forms I’ve taken but slain
Here are the traces of their existence
in my foul mouth
in the secret of my eyes
Here are the taste
of sweetness
of poison
and the extremes of both nights

I turn
I swing
Sometimes in between

Where did it open
before the storm came?

It’s somewhere there, my dear
I promise
Among all these letters that make up my name.

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