pinned down in the upstate desert,
all the same old dreams of suffocation,
of being lost,
of the house falling apart like
wet cardboard
this woman i knew who hated herself
yet swore she loved me
twenty years of silence and then
a letter from her husband
telling me exactly how i was going to die
thirty years of driving down
unpaved roads past nameless trailer parks
where only suicides waited
and you call what you’ve lived
a life
but maybe you’re a liar
maybe we all are
point the gun wherever you want
i guess
and just pull the trigger
there’s always time
to apologize later
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