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Deaf and dumb

I palm the walls

To feel for a light switch

That isn’t there.

The tips of my fingers

Become manic,

Scratching at

The Surface until

They bleed.

Each drop is one

Of my worries.

Though I can’t see

The blood for myself,

I am sure

There are twenty drops

In total,

Creating a pool of crimson

Forming the shape

Of the answer

To the question:

“What do I do now?”