but here
in the season of the resurrection and
one
hundred thousand miles away from
those
rooms where diego was busy fucking
frida’s
sister, we wake up to snow
we wake up
to blood on the sheets and the
image of
christ etched into the frost that films
the
bedroom window, but what good are
miracles
when the transmission is shot?
how far
into the forest do we have to
walk until
we’re truly free?
all of
these circular goddamn questions
that i
save for the drowning boy only to
realize
too late that he was dead long
before i was ever
born
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