Being “someone” felt like taking
care of a baby that wasn’t mine,
sad little helpless stinking bundle
of other people’s exhaustion,
expectations, and distress, alone

in a home not my own at night
fumbling around in a dark room
with anemic light from the front
room coming in thin, searching
for bottles and rattles and whatever

the fuck else those bundles require
for pacification while the bundle
itself kept unraveling from its
swaddles, squirming and wailing,
loyal only to its own suffering.

Originally published on Hijacked Amygdala here.

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About mischa

I write things about stuff, and sometimes stuff about things. Depends on the day.