a desire to erase,
to stay away forever.

an opportunity to transfigure,
to sit on the floor and wait for storms.

a line to cross, a lion at dusk,
a catastrophist.

a pen filled with acid,
a book of theories full of holes.

once this begins, there are only endings.

Turbulent upbringings
often teach one
to write out the storm

To all the pairs of unimpressed eyes
Please wait a little longer,
Please give me some more time

To your privilege,
And
My dismay,
I'm a pro player,
In the game of
Self-blame.