there is no magic by Alfred Booth

I know broken. An expert with glue. Vases. Words re-
quiring separation. Love triangles and the triage after
friends betray trust. Who goes, who stays? Yet broken
souls, like the one mamma crushed with a hair brush, well
that’s another matter. There is no glue. It’s magic doesn’t
work.  Just words, words, and more words spoken, spit,
sworn as we lie on a shrink’s couch and pour tears into
our wounds hoping the salt will cauterize them one last
time. All I can tell you about the outpouring of tears is that
I welcome their sting, like a hornet’s, like a swig of vodka when
you’ve eaten too much lobster, caviar, or chocolate and your gut
cries stop. At holiday time, I totter on the high precipices
above the sea, thinking about that final crash.  I return yearly.

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