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  • Charlotte Collins

From the COVID Den

Crows caw over a land

swollen with paper mirage.

I cried myself to sleep before I saw this.

My tears are my own now.

I brush my hair with you.

I cut off my hair and drop

my cloak of consent.

Don’t tell me what I want.

Only I know that.

To dream is to dance in icy winds.

To laugh in the face of a faceless God.

To see me is to be me.

I will give you that.

You can take because I let you.

Meaning is meaningless now.

How else can we live with ourselves?

Magic is real because I can take your hand

and I can take a paintbrush

and I can take myself

and crumple me into a ball

and become the trash

and the air between us.

You can take me and us and this.

Crack my world in half

and sew it up with gnawed thread.

Gnaw on the thread yourself.

How else can you know if this is real?


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