twenty-seven: a birthday poem


pull me up
out of this twist of blackness
i feel myself lit within
with the dark spark of madness

my flesh hangs on my bones
as i near the day of my birth
when i was coughed out
of an unknown woman’s girth

the summer burns red
a time for dying
if i said i loved august
i’d be lying

it feels something akin to
drowning in dry air
i write my epitaph
on a strand of my hair

i ask only this
in a voice so low:
forget you knew me
and let me go.

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