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dawn is an image i do not often experience.

i am sleep-weary and bedridden by thoughts

of what must i do today 

of can i make the deadline

and yet

there's that wren, outside my window

singing her constant, consistent song.


i wonder if she knows i can hear her.

i wonder if she cares.


last night,

midnight hues and headache pounding

footsteps on a carpet and my father's voice,

goodnight children i have to go run before it's midnight

one look at my face and forehead crinkles

you look exhausted. go to sleep.


there are not enough hours for all the things i want to do;

my canvas is large and i am running out of paint.

why must the stars be so welcoming? why must daybreak beckon with watercolor pastels?

i am afraid of death but it's less about the dying—

i am afraid of numb mind, eternal sleep.


there's so many colors 

i'm picasso or kandinsky,

tie-dye 80s craze because i can't choose an hour to wake in

(instead i choose them all.)


wake up, says the wren. you have so much to do.

i am infinity, i am

a mobius strip.


welcome to my ouroboros. 





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hey this is all beautiful?? relatable, definitely, and just wonderfully achy and familiar to read.

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current number of classic lit characters ive gone out of my way to project on and reason out why they might be gay: 8

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