The Chariot

friendships are coincidental mistakes, 
I fly pout first—
dirty reflections are often forgiving
because the way we look 
is so often skewed,
a thwarting of light and discordance—
nails bite themselves panicked
when the planets turn, 
I am 
trying to reconcile 
with each part of me 
that doesn’t listen well
 that doesn’t fly well
the enemy is me, 
stop pretending
it was mom, 
or dad,
or the one you stayed with after he rotted and expired
enemies are easy to name, 
when they don’t have faces
I am luck with chains attached
a moon and a thriving, 
ladders hold me upright—
and I check the top of skulls for any voids 
I might want access to,
many books I’ve read
suggest to try out spells
on yourself first 
to see if they work,
I keep falling and failing
which is to say,
I’m doing something right
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