so, I can walk to the other side
without turning around
to the old sound of the calls
and cries. I burnt it down to the

ground so I'd grow wings to fly beyond
the years that strung my tears with plated
gold and lies. I burned it slowly over *****
and lime. Some days I'd patch it

with memories that didn't rhyme. Then I'd
gussy it up with smiles and mush till it
stuck me like a porcupine. I'd carry
a water bottle with the pain. Drink from it,

then refill with rain. Some days I'd run
toward the flame like a high-speed train,
burning myself again and again.
My pen my wand/my cry my song
in ashes of auld lang syne in every page and line.