One spring breath, lilacs
and grass, would be
a happy ending--not a
wedding, sure, but
there is a knife in the gut,
the origin of the daily pain.
Oscillating like
a pendulum between
wanting to live and
wanting to die, I don't want
to disappoint anyone.
So I stay,
and the dirty names
leave grease marks
on my heart. Why do I
decide to disappoint myself
instead? Why am I
never my own muse?
02 March 2016
In like a lion
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