Saturday, April 04, 2015

the failure you imagine is never as terrible as the one you become

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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