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the you in my nightstand

It’s face was the used pages of a diary,
all bleeding ink and bent corners.

Voice like a scratched record,
no one to listen to it.

A dried ink pen for a spine,
chewed up brittle plastic.

With a brass locket for a heart,
hung on tangled chain and empty of sentiment.

It peered at me with mica-flake eyes,
squinting into fluorescent light.

I paid it with a copper penny to suckle,
closed the drawer to no complaint.

My memory smelled like cedar and lint,
felt like a knuckle in the eye.

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