Doors and Windows by Juliette Sebock

It’s strange that I take the pain inside my mind
and numb it until I can’t quite tell what’s real,
swallow another something to block it out more still,
until I can’t even see the terrors that stalk through the dark.

It’s stranger still that I can’t silence the pain outside,
even as I hide the bruises and slices and stabs
and welts and wounds and broken hearts,
as all the while they shape into figures
haunting shadow streets in silence.

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