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he's not a work of art, you know.
you'll never be able to keep him
like you keep your charcoal pencils
and your canvas and your pens.
he's not as tame as you'd like him.
he won't stand for you too long.
he's a horse, that one: wild.
so take some photos while you can.
he's not an item to be purchased,
and he's no furniture in your room.
he'll grow more legs and RUN
from lips and chains kissing his feet.
he's not a tapestry for you to display
so don't try to fit him in a frame.
that beauty, his, can't be harnessed.
truth will always be muffled, concealed.
he's not really YOURS, you know.
you're just borrowing him for a while.
tasting a drop of everything he is:
sipping at serenity - choking on chaos.
Luminescent in a pixel web,
Like the last dewdrop left by the sun:
Child of the mo(u)rning,
You crossed these broken ocean tides,
To extend a simple hand.
A hand that was vicious,
Attached to an arm that had swung:
Tossing trophies down mountainsides.
I accept it with outward nonchalance,
And an inward wound - mended by the flame.
Keeper of the p(l)ain,
Your love of other souls but mine
Has suddenly stopped its knocking
On the door I slammed shut,
I etched words of my redemption,
Though the season never seemed right.
Now the duplications cease
And the cursor simply adjusts you.
Are we (in)sane enough
To command placement of stone slabs
Over the ancient rubble of our bridge?
For I had built a house there
Underneath that old wooden bridge,
And I'm expecting you to retrieve its debris.
Teenage TaoismGiving birth is the closest I’d ever felt to dying.
Before that, my near death experiences had consisted only of my silent announcement of pregnancy—silent, being that my social media accounts were all deleted almost simultaneously and I never returned to school in the fall, saying without really saying that I had caught the malicious disease of “teenage pregnancy”. I’m sure the whisper spread in the hallways like the Bubonic Plague. That September, sitting at home on what would have been the first day of my senior year, I imagined friends I’d never talk to again saying “she was only seventeen, and so full of life!” at my absence in the cafeteria tables, as if they were attending my funeral instead of talking about me behind my back.
"Full of life," I had snorted then, folding a never ending stream of what had once been my own baby clothes. "Literally."
I walked around like a zombie for the months of my pregnancy, deciding t
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