Plastic when you’re brown

sometimes, we can’t put our finger on a multiple choice item on the checklist, because the conveyer belt is all we know.

sit closer to the cloud of dust,
it’s you.

when the rain comes it washes,
it’s you.

the drain swallows what use to be,
it’s you.

always, our familiar is foreign to the one who knows the pages of the book well, because they wrote it while you slept.

they call it an item —
make exact change,
slide the plastic
when you feel brown.

blue is too bright,
brown is the color
of the dust caught
in your throat when
all you want to say is
free me, free me.

from this very thing
that is you there’s an
evil you cannot hear,
but it found home in you.

the old gray woman,
she lives in the belly
of the young girl who
cried mercy when her
baby doll broke into
pieces of cutting glass.

Written by: Flose Boursiquot

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