Alive is not a competition but death calls to my indecision, before I fizzle out with weakening flames.
The future has looked stranger, indeed, and yet these are
your hair dyed dirty
blonde like your mom
said would never suit you, and
longing to remain blind to her little wisdom instilled.
My quick red mermaid maverick,
You always were a thing between states.
A fresh face
And a scowl to snuff a forest fire,
What was it – the hand with many voices murmured, sharp as lemon –
What was it that made you stay?
Dear kind Harpocrates, yield to them
Until the curtain drops o’er this sweet sad story
I never chose to write.
Guess I’m still self-righteous,
somewhere beneath the spite. Enough so
I could immortalize the ego in your overbite, the
we made heists of,
cracking the dial safes of your inspirations,
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