Going Home

 “Do not get your hopes up, for there is no joy to be found there.”

 We sign our names three on dotted lines. The doors here stay locked, but not for us. We walk alone in the labyrinth. Where the scent of bodies are gifted masks of bleach. The girl on my shoulders does not air a sound.

 In a bed, the shape of a person breathes. Someone still but my someone no more. Starved and starved of oxygen until each echo left. 

 “Who is she, Daddy?” 

 In my heart I answer, “I no longer know.”

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