What if i recklessly wrote three or four poems a day
and sent them into the void of cyberspace
where anyone from my little brother to my exes could read them
until i was picked clean like the carcass
of the rotisserie chicken my aunt sent me home with last weekend
and what if i then found spiderwebs in my pantry
and boiled a bone broth with it – would i be all
water with shiny oil spills fed to the masses
at the homeless shelter i almost wound up at

or should i instead demand a little privacy
when the car of my body stops short and my brain
reels back and jolts violently against my skull
until i am irrevocably damaged? should i put on display
for the purpose of a science i dont understand
the spots where i am worn thin and short circuiting

or should i grow out my hair to it’s natural color
and pile it on top of my head, donned in sweatpants
do yoga, think about the best exercises for an aging woman
go to therapy, read thick novels, think of children
and bake my very first contribution to Thanksgiving?
Just a pumpkin pie, nothing fancy. Could i possibly
forget what happened to me (was it me, really, even back then?)
or at least stop talking about it and just go quiet
could i pass for a brain that’s not short circuiting?

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