As
a child I tossed
all
my imaginary friends
out
the window of a fast moving train
because
I wanted to feel my fist
break
open as I freed them,
as
each of their bodies
whipped
against the siding,
their
insides: snow
dispersing
into wind,
their
little heads rolling
across
the yellow plains.
Because
I believed they would return.
But
none have since.
Not
even the ones I didn’t love.
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