a forgotten voice.
a song i used to know,
a sharpness in the dulcet acoustic rhythms
playing in the background while we’re
madly orbiting,
a woven lullaby of nightmares to sing to myself,
like a badly tuned guitar
with snapping strings,
that strike my knuckles,
a catholic school nun

stifling rebellion.

A rosebush seed planted,
sprouting branches
With nothing but thorns
and blossoms
where you love me not.
they reach toward something
no one knows.
that chokes and smothers
a pillow over the face of


shattered and fashioned into
mosaics of intentionally lost memories.

by Jordan Griffiths

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