Heart Medicine

Mazzy Sleep

It is a street that never
Ends, ground tarmac
Black against a blue sky
Houses with low roofs
Straightforward, stretched,
Also the same
Welcome to the suburbs,
There are two kinds of mailboxes
One with the last name Smith,
And one with the last name Brown.

You are a child in the middle of this
Road. You are sure the moment
You step forward you are making a choice,
Even though the path only goes forward
Here. Either you step off the road
Or follow in his tracks.

So many possibilities. You choose
To decline them all. You weren’t
Supposed to see a lot of things,
But that’s not how we were made
We have eyes. Other things
Use other senses.

Each house looks the same.
Lemonade, picnics, a simple
Life. Raise children,
Obedient ones. Also, urban
Areas. Neon lights.
Less children. You know each
Chapter has a location.
You choose not to write,
But time passes. People are waiting
For the book.

You are counting. You are
Playing a game. Numbers
Drop one by one.
Tink and drip. You open your
Eyes. Where is everyone?

First it looks more like a dream.
You wish it was one. Flat tarmac road.
Women drinking lemonades, young
Girls trying on new nail polishes in the backyard.
Boys playing sports. Then night. Not a single light in
A single window. Beep. Wake up.

You look behind every chair, search
Every corner, open every drawer
Ready or not here I come,
You said. Looks like they were all
Ready without you. You see
The hands on the clock moving. After
Awhile you cry because you’re a child.
You can’t pull apart imaginary
And friend.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this
Everyone else looks happier.
You know you only live once.
You’ve already exhausted simple pleasure
And knowledge cut into old wounds
Then you tried consuming yourself
The taste of a human mind
Was like that of ash.

Show me where it hurts,
She said. At first
You don’t know where,
Then you point to your
Elbow. She kisses your knee.

You have bruises
There was time
You spent trying to
Heal them.
As in, time wasted.
Your mother always said
Every wound is just preparation
For the next.
As in, later on you go numb.
You shut yourself off,
You say words like
Sentimental and

Is anyone home?

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Mazzy Sleep

Mazzy Sleep is a ten-year-old from Toronto, ON who began writing during the pandemic. She has written over one thousand poems and short stories, as well as two feature screenplays and a novella. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Queen’s Quarterly, Rattle, the Margins, Barren Magazine, Jellyfish Review and elsewhere. Find her at mazzysleep.com.


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