If you need to see how old I really am just take a sharp blade to my middle and count the ring- worms inside. I’ve been keeping my words, lately, somewhere other than here, here where my throat itches with the dusty pollen of verbal pollution with every click. You are beautiful, so too are your words, they could paint the sky, and I could paint you white.
What’s the point? I’m finding satisfaction in separation of self from symbolism and I would ask you all to join me. How many rings did you find? I am nearly 100-years and a few more days and I’m having a hard time swallowing.
I keep choking on air. That’s how old I really am. I keep a journal in the dirt but it keeps washing away but at least the rain doesn’t equate my fragments to my figure. At least the sun has the decency to apologize for burning bits of me into the earth.