what burns inside:

everything that matters most to you will eventually be gone.
taken, given away, traded, it matters not: it is all ebb
until the last drop of the ocean crawls back into the earth
and we are left to drown in our own words and dry air.

if hope is a thing that floats, then trust is a thing that
writhes and screams and thrashes in the space between your
pillow and headboard, keeps you up at night with its television
hands and a mouth shaped like an insidious lie.

i don’t need anyone, i used to say. now i need everyone

to shut up, to shut the fuck up.

i bury my dead beneath my floorboards, i have hundreds of them
in letters, in pictures, wrapped in scarves, hung with metal
teeth and a pendulum that never stops swaying. so changeable
we never know how to react, or even, if we should at all.

mix a thousand parts of the past with the absence of the present
and a cloudy tincture of the future with one part water

and drink, drink deep.

see how you’ll react.

trees are easier than people. even their seasonal death is reliable,
and my hands and the skin that flakes off in the dry air is prophetic
of when i too will turn to fall, and i ask, in the winter of my youth,
will you remember how you were martyred?



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