the yearly act of dying and then resurrecting at dawn is no longer as holy as it could have been the first time it happened i, no longer have bones within this vessel of ache and yet i am only tired when they ask if i am okay. i am never tired even when i am exhausted there is a lub-dub within, pounding the doors i have built, to see if i was capable of safety within these hazardous conditions. prophetically, i vision that as i step off the gallows stage into a trust fall choreographed by a world that promises to me he is better than this, there will come a slither of venom into the halls of this highschool and the crowd will unhinge their chests and let the cyanide bubble their veins and cry out lyrics about how who we are is who we are is who we areβ but i am only tired, i say.