This is me: mostly chips,
falling into treacherous oceans
populated with lost puzzle pieces
and missing socks, tumbling,
birthed from the drip-drip
of my melancholy grimace,
and me, my sun scorched skin
peeling away like paper pages
torn from the philosophers newest
rejection. The pile will grow.

I wear my burns like burdens,
like a shield, more malleable than metal.
They cannot stop the siege
but they hold the Gods at bay.
Observing from the bottom
of a sunken prison hold,
unable to hold marble council
with eloquently bronzed Mythology.

Mostly, this is his. Awkwardly adorned
with sixteen, seventeen, eighteen
years of anxious loneliness
finding solace in ardent devotion,
misdirected onto perfection
and into paperback legends.
There is no villain, hero,
sunrise tonight.

And I sink.



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