Recluse in Retreat

I’m afraid to write,
scared that my past would spill
into lead that this pencil carries.
Frightened that these words would
only spell out every day that I’ve lived wrong.

Why won’t Momma come back,
my heartbeat had once resounded
in her belly. Doesn’t she realize that
I need her?

Heavy hangs these clothes,
this body weighed down by
my neck hanging on a string.

I wonder where I will be tomorrow.

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