lives in my spine now

poetry

why,
little city burning
backs gettin’ warm
pictures of men
that shoulda been me
so i never grew up
i’m glad i figured that out
and i torture myself
and i’m only alright sometimes
why,
lighting up the glass
can’t stay off the ground
and i can’t remember
how nice it used to be
pictures of the moon
that’s where i’d like to be
that pond behind your house
where i go when i sleep
why.

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