By Alison McCabe

Shut face, dead eyes, semi-
permanent pout. the
heart clams up, mind boils
turning away, don't know the way
back.

"Not my fault," I say,
she's not truly mine, not
mine, not
truly. Followed by excuses,
neglect, too few demands.
But,
the heart knows the cave door
has shut and no
abracadabra
is going to open it.

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