I’m good at stumbling but I don’t want to be

I blink
the prior silence interrupted
by the sound of my upper and lower water lines
meeting for a brief moment
like business men
accidentally bumping briefcases
in an attempt to power through revolving doors

I remember walking amongst the
Eucalyptus when I was fourteen
and watching a koala fall from several metres up
I stood beside myself
and saw my eyes widen then squint
I saw how awful my posture was
I saw an ugly, petite girl who didn’t fit in the crowd
sure to bloom into a woman
just as unsightly and dainty
just as odd
kind of like blue coloured food
just not ordinary

I become more and more lost
and all that ails me doubles, triples
then hits me ten fold
because lately my mothers answer to everything
has been
take a snifter of cognac
I look at her with stained glass eyes
heavy through the coloured panes and
lead divisional’s obstructing my vision
the alcohol will not dull the
mess of voices inside my head
or stitch up that strange empty pocket in my heart
the tourniquet is useless
I keep stuffing it with gauze
when I run out I use socks
and scraps of fabric but
they all get swallowed by this impossibly red ooze

So,
what’s the point?

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