By Sarah Swenson
you have scabs on your hands and you pick at them.
the clock on the wall
hasn’t ticked in hours
and hours
and hours
and hours and
ink stains on your jeans are Rorschach tests.
you see a pelvis
and a bat…
maybe that one is just smudged pen-spit.
you open a notebook and close it again and look at
the clock on the wall
the air stinks of teenager and pencil shavings
you think: this could be it.
you sink into your chair
this could be nothing at all.
you are standing on the beach, summer-calloused feet buried in the sand.
you think: this could be it.
this could be everything
this could be–anything at all.
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