when i was eight, i signed a piece of paper
with a crayon
saying i’d never get married
and i gave it to my dad
and he kept the smile off his face
to match the solemnity in my eyes.

i’m tired of trying things that don’t work.
i have discontentment but i don’t
know how to fix it.

how we outgrow each other, and change is
a terrible and beautiful
actor on the stage
flinging roses out to the crowd
when it should be the other way around.
things have always been
new and strange to me like that.

i picked a scab,
and i watched it bleed.
i can say that’s better than
when i was eight but i won’t say
there’s not room to improve.


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