Maps are for memory. I seepalm trees by the forest. Their shadowsform an X at noon. I digusing hands feet mouth, biteagainst treasure – not gold but worry dolls that I spitout like multi-coloured teeth into my palm.
They tell me I buriedthem here when I wasn’tmy self. I tell them my predicament – of findingout who I am again by knowingwhat troubles I gave them. The dolls relinquishmy worr ...
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