the destroyer > text > Krystal Languell


The heart shrinks.
Panic gets easier.
It’s not an excuse.
It’s an explanation.
I rein in my Midwestern
inclination toward
disapproval because
it’s ugly. The eyes bead
up as if threatened
by a projectile. Trauma
burrows into the meat
of a body and mutes it.
I whisper over the fence
hey horsie. hey pony.
how’s your day going?

then look over my shoulders.
my year of bad sleep. when
my heart was big. it’s not safe.
that target. smallness isn’t by
definition poverty.
the Manhattan of my heart
for example. it’s overvalued.
the precious air let out makes
room for you. my whisper.
tiny ghost of don’t make me
responsible for you
. panic says:
the world rots anyway. my beady
little heart says: I am running
through. not around. the rot.

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