Paper sits—no one has touched
a single piece of me,
like some old dusty ruin.

How could I peel the world down to its crust
serve the core like an orange—
and just be another failed metaphor?

The clouds, in fact, sit above me.
They were never fluffy—only cold.
And I knew, to them, they were all ugly.

And to keep on bending the world
into words, chasing
the familiar taste of mediocrity.

I know—they were all ugly.
But they were mine—they were me.
Fold them in my hands

Bury them with me—
my ugly little truths.
I’m happy to die, to live in them.