clumsy rupture

I’ve lost count
of just how many
milliliters of hot,
thick streams of stress
trickled down my earlobe
since 11PM last night.

no one needs to know.

unless,
perhaps,
in subtle frankness…

the person concerned
kept tally marks
of Dumbo’s cries
and pitiful kicks,
falls to the ground
that tore at the lives of tightropes.

schadenfreude,
his likely speciality.

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