Morning

 

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I see my hairs are split
As I lay against
The crevices of duvet skin.
I tear them out,
With my disquieted digits.

Fingernails digging into my palm,
A damp fist full of injustice
And disturbed growth,
My eyes gushing with the fear of
Anything else beginning to break.

I crack with the dawn,
A wash of soft,
Painfully shining light
Tearing into my shut eyes
To show me
That mourning is,
And will be
Hard.

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