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I’m wearing my good luck funeral. A fake pencil is nestled in the inside pocket. I taste licorice because it’s raining. The wildlife keeps a respectful distance. My shoulder skulls track the clouds for threats. Finding none, I kneel before the tombstone of my godson. If ink was blood, I could write you a story of my veins and how they came to be here.
I have no engines to transmit the sorry of newsprint. My mind is an octopus reaching forward with wet, strong tentacles of grief. I give off paper airplanes like gusts of pheromones scattering the deer. I am the opposite of a battery. The grass turns inward at my touch. My shield becomes a cracked reindeer and I’m left with the bigoted remnants of my best intentions.
Here, every day is a birthday and I’m tired of it. I want to pull the back off of the phone and let the rain in. I’m a snow boot in a summer gutter. The armour I wear is not meant for peacetime.
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I have no engines to transmit the sorry of newsprint. My mind is an octopus reaching forward with wet, strong tentacles of grief. I give off paper airplanes like gusts of pheromones scattering the deer. I am the opposite of a battery. The grass turns inward at my touch. My shield becomes a cracked reindeer and I’m left with the bigoted remnants of my best intentions.
Here, every day is a birthday and I’m tired of it. I want to pull the back off of the phone and let the rain in. I’m a snow boot in a summer gutter. The armour I wear is not meant for peacetime.
tags