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Mold, by S

There’s a moldy part on the ceiling above my shower 
And I think it’s me
I stand, water running over my shoulders, staring in a trance 
The drone of shaky plumbing deafens me to another place 

I am in the next dimension; a new world
A warm but dull pain in my skull
I can hear the shapes
I can hold my breath for days 

My eyes are closed but I’m keeping them open
Fixated on this part of my ceiling where the humidity collects
Wondering how it came to be 
The void that stares back at me

I can hear my fathers reason off in the distance, beckoning 
I hear my mothers frantic pacing
I hear my sisters feet running to embrace me
I hear my brother. mute.

“I’m tryin real hard, Ringo.
I’m trying real hard to be the Shepherd.”
Am I the weak
Am I the tyranny 

I am the dirt
the moldy spot before me
I am the camera to a film
that will never be watched 

My eyes are closed but I’m keeping them open
Fixated on this part of my ceiling where the humidity collects
Wondering how it came to be 
The void that stares back at me

S, poetryjake buckholz