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Sandwiches of Pain

Sawdust on the floor, parents take
you out for a ride. The ride
stops, they let you out
at a street called divorce.

I don’t know the word for pain.

Dolor. Confused I look to the door;
older sister telling younger brother
that Mom and Dad are leaving each
other making little guy think they
were leaving him.

Self-pity. Let’s talk about pain:
locked in a closet, hit with a belt,
chastised for coming home late
with Dad, late after a fun weekend,
back to the grind and grounded
forever until 18.

I recall a wooden spoon she hit me
with, I forgive her, Mom was confused
this memory a ruse unless I put it
to blues.

Thrown to the floor, my head split
open.

“Don’t care,” said Tracy.

“I’ll care forever,” me to Tracy.

I trust you, I love you. Tracy

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