Triad

the Thought appears
like a demon, red eyes glowing
in the night, you hold a pillow
over its face to stifle it–

the Memory growls,
calling you to look, to shudder,
you stomp on it to fit into the trunk
so you can lock it down–

the Image glows,
you tell yourself you made it up,
but it’s real as the beat in your chest,
you dig a grave and pick out a rock–

They don’t go away, not really,
you merely cover them for later

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