Sun is throbbing inside your throat,
An itching, honey winged butterflies are afraid of.
Your gloom is the evidence of your existence, which you caress with baby powder imported from a land you have never heard of. 
Your grief is an animal wail in a human mouth, searching for a blood sputtering rose in the midst of a family gathering.
Your gloom is proofreading every sentence you make, 
Because she is where your syllables in a foreign accent break water in an attempt to sustain .
Your gloom is a lended lip balm where chopped lips dig their nails,
A shoe rack where dirty feets of planet look for a hidden God. 
Your grief is a fluid you store in ducts and under the roar of pipes, like an illicit child with a cleft lip.
Your grief lay map to the snow globe in the place of your mind,
your neck tattooed with the stars so broken to align themselves.
Your grief is like a tyrant afraid of songs, but it pleads to a cuckoo not to stop its
small talk on autumn mornings.
Your grief stock ups blades to gift you on your birthday while your fear hides them without a trace.
Your gloom calls you the broken leg of Kafka's chair,
But the truth is you are Sylvia's courage gone softer and rusted.
You call yourself "you"
Simply because you don't know who you are, 
Other than being a pigmented piece of your own grief.
Look carefully 
Can't you see your head in this poem, searching for a shoulder to lean on?

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