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I hold my heart in my head, and my head in my hands.
I have never been able to meet your demands.
I’ve driven so long that the sound of my car
is more familiar to me than the sound of my heart.

I’m familiar with this—the long uncomfortable grin
that precedes the gnawing sickness that claws from within–
it isn’t a bother, but more of a bore,
and it doesn’t hold the same romance for me anymore.

I used to welcome my emptiness feeling
that would beckon the onslaught of sadness and meaning
but I begin to become apprehensive and worse–
and to think of my gift as a sort of a curse.

The feeling of heaviness that used to thrill
has become just an addiction to the shades of your will
without hope or spite or semblance of remorse,
you send me your words and I stick to the course.

I revel in memories of nights that I spent
in the dark, angry throes of Bemoan and Lament,
feeling lunacy hover on the edge of my vision,
and a watchful death stalk me with a calm, cool precision.

Not so long ago, we danced for ourselves
in our passionate, wild-eyed savage spell,
and we welcomed insanity to be harbored in us
and filled up our pockets with sadness and dust.

                                                            -Kaitlyn Medina                       [4/20/09]

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