there’s that sinking feeling again—
a disease of stories about growing up
spread from mouth to mouth
like fever blisters being passed around a school,
but you don't believe them.

don’t worry,
later they can cut it out,  
surgically replacing inhibition
and the feeling that we’ve already ruined everything
with hope,
a reverie waiting to be end.

spools of yarn roll out from the old textile mill.
we gather them and
store every bit behind our teeth—
leaving us deaf and dumb
with little to do
but watch          and wait
for that queasy feeling to leave.

it never does,

and i’m tired.

so i’ll swallow the knots that form in my throat
and let them cluster together
into a confused mass
that grows
malignant.

every moment cataloged and thrown away.  

residue collecting in the grooves of a worn limbic system.