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Whitney K Walker

You give me that look
the one that says I’m the crazy one
and I couldn’t possibly be your daughter
just because I’m sitting here bawling my eyes out
because the voices are back
the ones that bounce off the walls
of the gutter and escape
from the tiny holes of the shower drain.

It hurts when I try to make you understand
about my fear of people on the street
and on the bus,
like the old man this morning
who sat across from me,
looking as if he were about to
crumble to pieces,
blood stains covering
his tan slacks.

I find myself at the train station
where thoughts of taking my own life return,
as I stand by the edge
of the yellow brick tile
where you’re not supposed to stand
and I stare
at the third rail
at the tracks
at the gravel pits
and I have visions
of blood spraying
my head rolling to the side
as the train and I meet head on.



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