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even as i close the door
on this part of my life Carl Jung is holding the door knob he points out the color of the door it's red the color of my blood even old ghosts like to mansplain shit he takes my wrists in his own and traces the veins i am a map going everywhere and nowhere i am the tree of life psychiatrists have always loved me the ghost of Carl Jung smokes his pipe he is thinking how we both like leather couches he is thinking about my scars he wishes he had some of his own but now its too late for him Joseph Campbell is riding a goat behind him he has a dagger in his hand we are all here to discuss the death of the mother archetype the blood red door is weeping i smoke Jung's pipe Campbell and I draw maps of the universe on the naked white floor of the hospital we are in I wear a deer's antlers we create the world as we see it with an abandoned box of legos my daughter drifts off into the sky we all let go of the balloons we hold on to i cry Carl pats my back in a grandfatherly way Joseph gifts me the goat that he is riding the door is still bleeding when we all decide life is fucked up
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AuthorMichelle Tinklepaugh Archives
June 2023
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