When did I become me?
Was I born obsolete?
To what end do I furnish these rooms
they are only closets
keyholes by which my bones are passed.
I have such an impossible heart
it goes up like a balloon and at the very apex
crashes with the weight of mountains.
She is discord, she is fruitless
a mother wounding babies
and such a mother is not fit.
If only I were outlandish,
then it would not hurt so much.
Each breath, an onslaught,
a firing squad, a punishment.
I was not made to last.
I hold out until morning
chugging the aurora,
the stars so contentious
my soul a scintilla,
a needle’s eye view
of memories unbending.
I am sick possibly delirious that has nothing to do with the subject of the poem I am just making conversation. I had work today too and a fever the whole time but I am afraid to miss any days in my trial period (my own craziness). Tomorrow or actually today because this will come to you on the 22nd is my 16th anniversary!