Three Thirty

Lungs that need to breathe,
Muscles screaming for air,
She lies in bed,

Oh, for the days when
She wasn’t aware of
Her own body:
When she wasn’t
So acutely cognizant of
Its every defect and

There is no awareness so
Stark or unremitting
As realizing
We’ve lost
Our unawareness

She tries
In vain
To recall
What it felt like
Not to feel
So bad

Some torn things
Can’t be mended;
Some paint
Can’t be touched up –

Sometimes, she is filled
With hollow —
The air can’t get in

The hope can’t get in

And the best she has,
For awhile,

Is distraction

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