no one is singing your praises anymore. the most loved you revere even refuses the word. the sanctity you held your body in is discussing its forming lines. vacuums of time, swallowing your youth whole. i stare in the mirror and am remembering a summer when i didn’t stare so hard.
the night feels clear. even with death filling your nose, rooms of blood, splashed, there’s a freedom in me. angling the wind against my arms, strong from the senile sea.
i am a 90-degree form. the most fitting squares in the most perfect places.
forgetting my blues. becoming my mother. stealing the disturbing work i’ve created for myself, reckless.
and taking all the pills while needling all the threads with the bevels of stolen syringes.
leaving the guilt behind as i slowly walk out the front door. boxes in hand.
while waking up to deal with the consequences of sitting too long at a desk in a room with only one window to a hallway.
i am opaque glass.
but now i see…