Am I?


Swirling together in cluttered cosmos.

My bones are made of milk past its prime.

My blood is made of cheap strawberry wine.


A bragging pulse.

I am still alive.

Only to verify

That I cannot die-

Not when I wanted to.

Not this time.


My lineage is humble, Daddy committed suicide.

I was ten, not yet fermented, unpasteurized.

I live for everyone else, to satisfy

Caught in a web of aspirations and lies.


Immortality in the form of

Molecules molded to imperfection,

Heartbeats and cries.

This poem is about: 
My family
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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