Laura Thornley


I am a writer


Wet faces staring,strangers,all knowing freaks,taunting withmy memories,speaking solid factsthat break into fragments,and float into my earson a condescending tone,a stomach churning tone.I want to screammy denial, a multitude of questionswith a ladle full of doubt.Have they stolen my recognition?Have they gnawed away my thoughts?Or did a parallel universeswallow me up in time,spitting me out in thiswhite metal dream.Where I stand.Where they stare.Where they wait for the synapse,wait for the sparkWill it spark?

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