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How quickly
the seductive heroism
of continuing to choose
the chosen
seems to have forgotten
that there is no sustaining desire
without sacrificing the certainty
that used to be
the one deal breaker.
The path becomes a petri dish
for temptations
and their many names:
the last craved heartbreak,
the unchangeable past
once again coveted,
requiring the arduous
but futile task of finding
old blame long buried
to dig up and use as fuel
to the fire that had once
choked with noxious smoke
all chances of discovering
the kind of pain worth
greeting every morning for.
Where the famed happy ending
is not ten thousand delicate
shivers down your spine from
the same familiar touch,
the nights become
prison walls vandalized
with euphemisms for
the same taboo: I thought
I wanted this, but now
I’m not so sure,
as if the weight of years
curled up in bed with fistfuls
of loneliness and matted hair
and insecurities that itched
to the point of bleeding
had merely been an oversized
pill you only needed take
with a heady chaser
and slept off. As if
there had been other roads
you hadn’t explored
to the very end lugging
that soul-defining luggage
before you arrived
at the conclusion that
the horizon you’d glimpsed
in all of them
is your personal ocean,
and it reflects all your stars.
Home and hearth can sound
hollow like a desert,
and how easy it is to be
fooled that life is small and
resembles walking in circles,
that the mirages bear
the face of your savior
from the oppressive order
you yourself have built,
the permission to flee the
eye of the monogamous moon.
But do you remember
how many times you tried
to throw away everything
you’ve fervently carried
for a dance and a kiss
and a flame-colored dawn?
How they all turned out
to be made of paper that
could not hold your hunger?
How you splintered into pages
of despair, and grew old
from all the spells of fever
that broke against your light.
How the price for possessing you
neither rose nor fell,
but went laterally across
the field littered with those
love stories spread thin
even with the grandiosity
of the telling.

And all your trying led to him.
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