by Megan Ampim
hands are warm in intention
not in appearance
closely guarded in the courtroom
analysis is
intense
intrusive, unwelcome
the descriptions arrive at mine.
i don’t move.
i’d like the master key
i am locked from the inside
the access is dilute
my understanding is weak
the pictures are obsessive
the sound is heavy
the logic is based on the
surroundings. we are society.
i wake up and expect to be
timed
watched.
i stroll through paranoia
i wait.
‘the mind is in
need of a renovation.’
scaffolding. metal with
no heat
it’s tiring, you
know
i’ll do it later
i’ll do
it later.
blue digits, the motivation
not the observation
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