and for all the black earth in my nails 

of which bed have I finally earned sleep?

milling and tumbling endlessly 

scraping and planting
in flesh-tolled toil 
machete-pacing a tract in the floor
until it becomes a fissure
and that animal is no more.

smoothed out by life's sandy trials 

a shape named me 

whittled an atom at a time 
to finally fit the slot and turn 
with a well-oiled click 
to open a door 
and turn my back to myself 
for the last time 
the clock strikes thirteen.

I've earned enough 
to be clean

(((((t h i n k 
of all the conversations we ve had 
and lie to me : 

tell me that it wasn't you 

and I'll wait with cupped hands 
for when you leave because 
I'm not the man you loved anymore.)))))

Self fulfilling prophesy

◄ atlantic/s (03/28/2020)

tide pod (04/25/2020) ►


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