Peepers

I lost you last night,

the same night I let myself shamelessly

break down between everyone around me

and the man that raised me,

the night I put a hole through my favorite

J Cole poster, how his face had now lacked

sincerity, comfort. The wicker basket

trashcan stuck shrouds in my feet.

 

I don’t know what it is but I

need to get out of here,

away from the damage, the wall

of a voice on the end of the phone line

still glued to my ear.

 

I need to get out of here;

sink into leather seats

and my brother and sisters laughs,

find comfort in inhale

and exhale.

 

We parked in the cul-de-sac with the lights off,

music off, windows down. I listened

to the peepers keeping themselves warm.

How they understood me.

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