flashes before your eyes
I woke up with a cut
on my arm
about the size of a centipede
mostly crimson red
the center body like a
freelance stitch
bruises come & go
as if having
a life of their own
I talk to them on occasion
but they rarely tell me
much of anything
it’s nothing like
when we were kids
each & every event
stored inside the cache
picking & choosing
when to resurface next
august two thousand twenty-three
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