“Going into the forest,” it’s what they call it, if you ever read that stuff.

Thinking about who you touch, and how: “It’s supposed to be painful.”

[To have intention]

Writing an obituary in your head, Every Day, and dissecting, if you can live up to
your own standards.

So I stand dumb-eyed,
Peering into a mirror
Pulling the lines on my face taut,
and watching them fall back into place.

More than anything,
distracted by the thought of why there are not more of them.

Perhaps it will all end when I am good enough.

 

 

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