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by Jolie Jordan

I spot you,
across the room.
you look up--
the floor splits in two.

I am the half empty modela
now resting in
wet palms.
My throat is pregnant with stopped air.

The label has peeled and paper is everywhere,
I am smirking like some dumb child,
feeding my anxiety with an $8
shit beer. This isn't happiness.
Nor is that thing
you carry on your shoulder.

And if I know anything about
being the deer,
you must know everything
about running me down.


Posted on 03/16/2017
Copyright © 2018 Jolie Jordan

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