Homegrown but hermetically sealed from people, places, ways to feel. Dropping a tablet on a tongue, Korbel divides around pink sponge; swallowing four or five, to avoid feeling alive. There are cars leaving trails of thoughts. Dare them to drive, drunk on moments, stuck on other people-- her freckles could fall to the floor and turn the tiles into an oceanic remembrance.
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We are lost trees, reaching out but stuck where we say we'll soon leave: rooted even after death, relying on escape so much that hope becomes our prison.