Breadcrumb #308


Yes, I’ve been told about the sea
kept behind two closed doors.

About the mirror, how our breathing
is now monitored

by regime. At times
no one believes me. At times

my mind petals against the better part
of memory

Then rusts. I don’t flinch
for anything and refuse to go quietly.

No further questions,
they told me.

It’s merely customary to fight
in order to stay

locked inside of a flaming city.
Be taught the work and do the work

Guaranteed to break hands. Here,
I’ve heard what it means to love

is chained like a dog
and killing is the new human

In the sewn-up pockets

of the living, little grim apologies
are carried like stones

which read:
I’m so sorry that you need me.

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