Everyday categorizing
every person
I met.
Then another, then another.
Does my repetition
get as old in my poetry
as it does in real life?
Because
sometimes I worry it does.
There's another repetition.
Worry.
Endless endings
of overturned stomachs
and half bitten fingernails.
Well that part doesn't ring true anymore,
now my nails sing smooth under satin sheets of slick polish.
Reformed.
Instead I bite my lip.
Clench my jaw.
Inhale sweet but sharp.
Everything overlaps.
10/11/2015
Riley Welch
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