Can’t bleed myself dry, can’t separate our time

by Caitlin

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I packed everything that we co owned. The bags were numerous and object hap hazard and odd. Some were sensible. Nail clippers, envelope openers, some good knives and good slabs of wood. The rest were tokens of our landscape. The pathway that our hearts have tread. Knarled pips fallen from the cork tree, scar faced sock puppets, half smoothed spoons and empty bell jars, waiting for our mini me’s entree. The containers form a shadow in the corner. I’ve simplified the content that was strewn throughout the days, and sorted them into bin liners, carriers and suitcases. I can’t quite take them away. A omnipotent pregnancy, warping heat and time and comprehension. I cower yet am fascinated by the sheer mass of story. Obselete, out of time, they still summon a shudder as I run past them rolling my eyes. I’ve packed us up, ready for shipment, currently embargoed until ready for random public consumption. Soon the things that I used to summon the smell of you will be hanging from a rail, smartly tagged. You will make a really good charity shop sale. 

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