The Queen bed holds
the wreckage
of a Non-Queen
The Virgin Suicides split open
The litter of self:
Sand speckles twisted sheets
Fist fulls of tissues
Crimson lipstick stains flaccid pillow case
Strays of black hair in an outline of Italy
Every light is off
inside
Label it depression
Say it's a quarter life crisis
Call it whatever name you want for coping—
poorly
In her flat universe
the Queen bed is the center of all life
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