Today was a miserable day
and tears are unproductive.
My fingers glide against a roll of packing tape,
searching out the broken end,
stripping sticky sections slowly,
carefully,
violently.
I tape things away
because looking them in the eye takes time.
They're not real.
They're not mine.
I'm not real.
Corners cleanly creased,
my package leaves to join the rest,
--the neatly labeled
--the unacknowledged
that form my .
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