another wave of nostalgia that i’m drowning under,

which makes me wonder

if i ever grew up outside of height,

because i might

be stuck in the same situation;

jammed seatbelt.

driving, hairpinning, crashing, burning and falling

asleep at the wheel;

wide awake on the concrete.

two feet left any chance

of being right about my stance,

but it’s hard to be erect

when you’re soft and imperfect.

unflawed, but withholding

like makeup. and knowing

everything you’re not showing

is living proof that you’re folding

like origami. pretty

big waste of time. petty

with no functional use,

so i set fire to the noose

and hang you up; truce

as white flames wave in the air

and the ashes permeate it

with smell.


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