By Leigh Phillips

We need a musicbox to make lullabies come back to whole. I need a lullaby in my chest called something more than thorax, sternum. Somebody should invent an eye cream that knows how to take the pain out of blue. Instead of targeting fine lines and wrinkles, breakups would reverse their fractures. No one would wait for an altar that never comes. No one ever dies until we all die together. One cell at a time. Results appear in 4-6 weeks. Soon, I won’t look out bus windows that way, but this way. Megan won’t say ‘don’t hide your sadness,’ because sadness is salved underneath the skin where problem areas begin. Deeply penetrates to reverse signs of ‘I need a stimulus package for my libidinal economy’. The only vaginal rejuvenation I want is the kind that closes its legs on bad sex. If you say there’s no such thing, you do not need Regenerist. My patent is pending. In the future, all spoons will be sold in pairs. Whenever I see a blackbird on a wire, it will sing “your beauty never left you.” Watch this: I put away the pictures of twenty-three. It is possible to be seen. My stars are warm here. I love it when I turn out the lights and I sit in the dark, waiting for sleep to happen. There is so much room to stretch, even run. What did you say? Oh, you didn’t say anything. Still. Wait, what? Anyway, no. It is fine. Hello? Nothing. No one. I don’t know what you’re talking about.


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So to Speak
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