Thrush Poetry Journal
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Eve Kenneally
​

Neurotic Anxiety
 
        I text Charlie that I have time, UV ray exposure, particles in my lungs. Long
        hair like wreckage to sit with. That I’m thinking about how I’ll feel before
        what I’m feeling and while feeling forward and during and after and silence.
        I look at an album of my pictures and walk out of every frame. Words fall
        off the bone. I peel bone like rind and I whistle.




Eve Kenneally is a Brooklyn-based writer, etc. Eve's poems have appeared in Peach Mag, Wax Nine, and other places.




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