Lately, I can wade into the ocean without imagining drowning I don’t consider the feeling of opening my skin with every sharp item I encounter And I can hold a pen without contemplating ramming it deep into my skull So now I’m not entirely sure what to do with them How do I write if I’m not doing it to keep the pen on paper and out of my forehead? I know my rage is still there, I never have to fear losing it But it’s resting for once and I’m afraid if I try to pluck a poem from the blue-hot embers I’ll wake up every flame
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