—all will be left behind here in this place, forgotten/ sprouting—remember birth-days in crowded places, replenished?—remember the fun you forgot to have? and now in your painted up, you sacrifice nostalgia with a numbing. It wasn’t that your life was hard or that your findings unimportant, it’s that your youth trounced, what was invasive. Unaware that life was meant to leave a bad taste.
[In days where sleep awakens me, I see my hair pearly and sterling, stunning—it turns into stripping—despoiling a rifle where my third eye died.]
It’s easier, as the days vandalize— to clothe my woes in what I’ve learned, in spoil—we all rot in the earth unless we’re burnt, or we crash into the sea. I wonder what it feels like to die in the air? How ideal the flight of the white-throated swift for a woman able to spiral in death, and in love—fucking through the air of a canyon. To fly into death. Into ecstasy.
