Caught, a tangled mess of throb and head. Inside a bedsheet, like a tomb, I lay as Lazarus before resurrection. 

So stumbles in the sun. Apollo slays his sister and stabs me with his education, his poetry, and lifts me to hang me from his pen, so to scratch me out. I am smeared and salvaged, but little makes me. 

The bird now trills, as it does every morn. I attempt to seize an hour, but the clock strips the screw head—I’m lodged in wakefulness. 

My head, kills. 

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