One-hundred and Fifty-two: Alright

There is a flower of ice cubes
floating in my glass house.
I count the leaves on trees.
I smile at the sole star in the sky.
This spring I became Libra,
shedding a decade-long cocoon of self-doubt.

My heart is a mass of scars-
a history of belated strength.
It is sore. But I am alright.

I’d like to rewind all those moments I choked.
Rewind, pause, erase, record again.
But I can’t.
So I sit here instead,
planning promiscuous summers,
a facade of feminine facism,
to give you something to chew.

I’m alright.
But I’d be better with you.


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

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