Forty-one:

I was holes in your boat, sinking you, you said. So
out I go, thrown like a starfish, overboard, thinking,
but I made this damn boat. The seabed is dragging me
down, down, down but I have  a strong stroke and I
pierce the water and fall into the sky. I am a star, wink,
wink.
Can’t catch me from down there. I am a lighthouse
dragging you home but I’d rather let you drown in your
faux grown up gravity. I’ll still save you, I know, it’s what
I do. I’ll shine you to the shore but once you’re there you’re
on your own: blind and shivering with nothing but
a sad little boat and a wish for some directions home.

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Alexia

I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

4 thoughts on “Forty-one:”

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