By Sarah Swenson

you have scabs on your hands and you pick at them.

the clock on the wall

hasn’t ticked in hours

and hours

and hours

and hours and

ink stains on your jeans are Rorschach tests.

you see a pelvis

and a bat…

maybe that one is just smudged pen-spit.

you open a notebook and close it again and look at

the clock on the wall

the air stinks of teenager and pencil shavings

you think: this could be it.

you sink into your chair

this could be nothing at all.

you are standing on the beach, summer-calloused feet buried in the sand.

you think: this could be it.

this could be everything

this could be–anything at all.

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