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Bottles

Father always told me

never to let a night terror

go to waste


So now I stash them away

in swing-top glass bottles


Each an endless

swirling

howling

shrieking

gnashing

slashing

void

of vile violence

and petty hatred


Just the other day

I left one beneath my brother's bed

I wonder when he'll find it -

sooner, while I still despise him?

Or will it be

some later date

when we're adults

waxing nostalgic

for childish iniquities traded




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