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Teresa Wright

tracing twaddle dot by dot, letter by letter

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Loathing indulgence

A terrible thing, waking from a dream 

to the aftermath, like an all-night party 

when the parents were gone, and 'cool' 

was your thinking, not 'how the fuck did  

that get in the kitchen?', and not 'oh, shit 

… we really did that!'. And when morning  

starts peeking through the blinds, begins 

to catch what little breath lingers, it folds, 

so you gasp, and you choke on the horror. 


Every good dream leaves a wake, a mess, 

a time when the dust settles outside the  

stream of sunlight, and, abruptly, you are 

guilt-ridden for indulging that brief siesta. 


A terrible thing, abiding a shabby lifestyle 

a daily pattern, like the mix-up of a sordid 

affair when the logic is gone, and 'oh, Fuck' 

was your thinking, not 'why the hell did I 

say that?', and not 'oh, shit …  he knows  

where I live!'. And when morning creeps 

from under the sheets, startles you to your  

senses, as if he gasped, or respected, you 

grasp your lock, and try to undo the desire. 


Every good romance leaves a spot, a mark, 

a time when the smile touches down on a 

thread of truth, and, exposed, found out,  

you self-loathe for your miserly indulgence 

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