• Vol. 02
  • Chapter 12
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I have a talent for joining sinking ships,
setting fire to first-class lifeboats,
the forests I planted in the attic,
imperial green zones of our hopes
that we needed to raze so we could
pretend to begin again, because nothing
says fresh start like fresh ashes.

I’m walking in the gutter to feel higher
than something, anything, craving
autonomy like those pines demanded
the sun when they were young. Now
I’m left with spars I can throw so well
I’ll hit all the motes in your eye; you’ll
believe me when I say I feel your pain.