with every breath my blood runs but never leaves: every cell contained in hidden channels of my veins. every drop is safe inside no matter how I lose my time. somewhere in a nightmare streets run red with the blood of martyrs. mothers wash the shells of children with their tears and I am watching on my phone. I wonder how much of this is enough to make us wake up and pull our heads out of the mirror. does my anger mean anything more than a projection of my guilty intoxication on the privilege that cradles me softly to sleep?
there is static where there should be thought and feeling. I never know how much of me is the medicine I take to stop looking so close. there are cracks that the flowers cover over. I pick them from the ground and spoil every fresco with fuel and a flame.
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