Mom loves you. She'll understand if you tell her. She won't hold it above your head. Like noose and broken bottles in the cellar. All that mold you hold dear inside your mouth, open up, and let the moths finally spread their wings. Let them cuddle cocoon fingers and stretch your skin. Tough but silk and rough and harp string. These are the ways I think of up. Of flying, waking up better, stronger.
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