In my lifetime,
I’ve loved so many pages.
But I love this page.
I love this page with my whole heart
--the way the pen moves as it pumps blood to my fingers--
how the ink stains this once blank page.
--how with one staple,
my summer becomes an insert,
an attachment
that can be ripped out and forgotten
Maybe even
burned.
Like any one of the stained pages from my shit stain of a year.
Rip.
Flick.
Ashes.
It can be gone.
I’m ready.
Let it burn.