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Posted (edited)

i.
huginn. muninn.
from their throats comes a draconic
hungry purr, clicking as if the noise catches
and sticks before clattering to the ground
like a car that doesn't want to start

they spiral. you spiral.
these aren't so different here
though yours is a metaphorical thing
less of feathers and updrafts and
more like pencil sharpeners and pocketknives

you are running low on peroxide.

ii.
memory. thought.
you apologize to your past self
your future self: for not being kind
or good or happy or the type of person
you needed when you were younger

steak knife. pocketknife.
these things, these blades, are the kind that
flash in the sun and show you
the meaning of the phrase 'eyes are the windows
to the soul'. you suck the rambutan stone

and you are, by default, at peace.

iii.
golden film reel.
more sepia, really. colder. emptier
the color of yesteryear's forecast when
you picked up the habit of holding your sleeves
by the hem when they might slip

two nights. 977 nights.
these things are different only by their edges
by their endings and by their titles
your past self is angry and ashamed
and your present self is sick to disappoint him

you are your own ticking.

iv.
you break patterns.
they lend themselves to you, laid out
and easy like a spread of block print

like sandcastles you step square and firm
right in the middle to feel the crumble
or the hard, fast way completeness can end
and then all you have is a sandcastle
with a footprint in it.

there are things that cannot be hidden.
this block print brandishes old scars and tall socks.

v.
longevity is the mistress of anxiety.

vi.
when the sun sets, you dig through
the sky searching for diamonds but you find
pea gravel

flung far past the string of buoys that tell you
you've gone too far and to turn back
lest your lungs burn up in a flare of oxygen
the rope holds the buoys down like
scars hold down your skin.

you are something gossamer.

vii.
last night you stood freezing outside
at two AM with your head back and eyes flung wide
to embrace the stars in your irises.

flashlight in one hand, pocketknife in the other
the shadows cast threaded a coil of fear in your gut
and your knuckles stretched white. you are made of this, of
tendons and veins and smallness under the sky, the kind
of smallness that fills your chest with helium and lead

viii.
you look hard for good endings but
always stumble into begging
for forgiveness instead

Edited by hayfevered

holla holla get dolla

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