URBAN SELF-EXPLORATION

MEG EDEN

 
 

nostalgia is
dimly lit,
like a mall
in 1989:
neon-lettered
& open
all night long
inside me.
a row of boxed
action figures
wait to be opened.
their bright packaging
should make me wary
the way fluorescent
spiders
are the poisoned ones.
even the things
i wait for
disappoint me—the toys
inside don’t live up
to my expectations.
ponytail holders
are only cool
because ponytails
are dead. nothing
is quite as interesting
when its alive, only
the extinct have museums.

 

 
 

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