turned into you
–and how many of these i've heard, don't think you're any original.
anyways, you were then left alone to wonder
wonderfully
rudderless and half-sunk
you were the perfect double-sided
switchblade
as long as no one knew how to handle you
but how long until you lose the last string
that pulls your stitches together?
opening up a world of blank sheets
and impossible inks, of wasted years and crooked consonants
you hope for the latest, knowingly fearing the soon.
in a way you freed me with your
inconsistency. still, it's sad you have to live like that
and it's still sad you have grown to be a waste of your time and everyone else's.
for z.d.
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