my doubts and hurt and core, an opened bag of campfire marshmallows

          small, puffy white clouds of saccharine self-loathing or hope

and, one by one,

          up the wall,

                    over the ceiling,

                              tiny black specks of six-legged politics, anger, hate

                                        slowly pierce through to revel in the sugared madness

the six-legged line, unending, continuous

          carrying away pieces, little by little

                    on repeat

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