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  • Paulina Trigos

SOLITUDE, VAST INNER SOLITUDE! FEELS LIKE ANGER WHICH FEELS LIKE... (dedicated to Kendra Allen)

Stepping on a puddle of water with socks on. A grumbling stomach. The color purple. Broken tights. Water that doesn’t drain. The stinging of alcohol on a wound. Crumbs falling on a carpet. Whispering voices in a doctor’s office. Biting a cherry tomato halfway. Finishing a book and feeling disappointed by the last sentence. Staring at a blank page, a blank canvas, a white wall. Being pushed into the closet, into the attic, yet still being able to hear their laughter coming from the dining room downstairs. Running out of breath. Not being able to light a candle because the wick has drowned in the wax. Wishing I could see something other than darkness. Scratching a mosquito bite or making a cross on top of said mosquito bite. Missing a step. Choking on your own saliva – what a treachery! A moldy avocado. Sundays and Mondays and Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Thursdays and Fridays and Saturdays and Sundays and Mondays... An instrument when it is off-key. Alzheimers. Biting your cheek while chewing and tasting the blood – swiping your tongue over it and wishing time would speed up, that the wound was already healed only for the teeth to strike back and bite again. Reciting a poem but forgetting the end. Bathing in cold water. Wishing you could pull off the color yellow. Your back hurting after sleeping on the wrong side of the bed. Your hair smelling like cigarette smoke after you just washed it. A wood splinter. Losing you. Wrong directions. An unheard comment. The bottom of a wine bottle. Pasta before being boiled. Finding your own childhood drawings. Finding out the truth about Santa. Picking at a scab. The marks left imprinted on your skin by pressure.

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