i'm thinking, now, that i could've stayed back and never learned how to exist.
or, maybe, there's still scope for that. an earnest bite of flared fishhook, two of those 45 degree mirrors that let submarines see all the way up to the surface.
whatever you do, don't imagine a white fenced-in yard with a swing-set and bruised knees and lemonade. whatever you do, don't be shaped by the people who brought you up.
imagine it with all sincerity in your inner monologue. imagine: a frail row of toothpicks across the maw and you are seven years old once more.
who knows? we are barely subatomic in the scheme of things.
“Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number.
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you—
Ye are many—they are few.” — Mary Shelly
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