I am wrong

Like every star upon the sand wrought by God’s capricious hand.

I am problematic

Like the poem that winds between all the piercings in your ears and binds the wounds so they pull each other’s pain, escapeless

I am nauseating

Like the din of reality grating on a chalkboard of elephant skin

I am intolerable

Like the unicorns and Jews that were chased to the edge of the plate for being too flavorful

I am nothing special

Like the girl behind the glasses that walks like Latin jazz piano and swifts her hair to cover

her neck, exposing nothing. You know before her unsticked lips open

the words will grate, will problematic in your ears, whirlpools

Burn a crater in your eyes from that gaze you cannot stand

to look away, a moon ringwormed in a sky blue like all other skies

nothing special.



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