If there's one there's fire

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Like cockroaches, if there’s one there’s fire

And my hand is on the bedroom door

Feeling for warmth

Which is the same feeling as a second beer

Or one more glass of wine

When I know I’m not going to be driving anywhere

I got my license and two days later

The city kept me up all night

Whispering in my ear all the ways that this was real

And now I need to clean everything

Replace my mattress

And burn all the rabbits

Just in case they were loved until their noses became raw

And it is true and it is true and it is true

And I already know the rest of that thought

As I count the constellations on my hands

Made from all the clamshells slicing through me

Not unlike spurs between my toes

But I haven’t been to the beach in two years

So maybe it isn’t a clear memory anyway

PoetryEmma CoyleSenses, Poetry