pastboard edges, grass around
the ridges in the snow, what a good
place to hide, what a
good place. a match, dear king, a match.
this white is thin, it doesn’t hide
a thing about my body
or what i want in it, space
for your knuckles. so it’s like what i say.
for once it doesn’t matter
if you like it. if i don’t make it
through the year, if i don’t make it
through the day, strike it, strike.
plant all these little lights in me, spread me
on hills, bury me in bunny holes.
amanda doesn’t like funerals. i
don’t like umbrellas.
No comments:
Post a Comment