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120 and nothing but an open road
I.
I am a poet
and sometimes
I am afraid to write at all
poetry is stitched upon my skin
and the importance is the stitching
not the scars
But once they heal,
the question comes
is the scarring worse than the open wound?
Is survival worth
the constant reminder that
I am a poet
but you'll understand
to heal,
you first must speak it into being
and often I do not even have
the courage to acknowledge it's real
II.
You are about to learn how your story ends
But first I'll tell you how it starts
communion wine: the taste of blood
band-aids and socks and scab-covered shins
alveoli filled with fluid; the question
How am I drowning on land?
the number twenty
perfect twenty, twenty grams
2020, April twenty-eighth
Twenty-one: 9+10, pilots
You are about to learn how your story ends
but first, do you know how it's gone?
safety scissors and choppy hair
Laffy taffy boots and torn nails
pencil lead and a red and yellow
tarped water slide
cherry pits and almost-perfectly wedged clay
You are about to learn how your story ends
This is your last chance to exit the ride
III.
this body aches
in a riverbed of longing
a year has come
and another will go
and nothing has changed
I am still the one who remembers
the one they would rather leave behind
It's second grade and
I am the only girl in class
who didn't make it to the party
this body is a dry riverbed
that aches for water
it is 11:59 pm
and I am singing happy birthday
to myself before the day ends
Because someone has to,
even if I'm the only one who remembers
IV.
I no longer live with a black hole inside of me
but sometimes it still shows its teeth
sometimes the only thing between me and heaven
is a highway and there are days
where I still dream of getting out
I'm scared I'll turn out like my dad
in love with a highway
and trying to return to a home
that isn't there anymore
This isn't how it was supposed to be
echoing through an empty home
full of people
a salt-stained and sun-bruised daughter
left wishing she had something to offer besides
I'm sorry
I've lived in this town my whole life
but I can feel my father's urge to pack the boxes
in the bottom of my lungs
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