Effortless they
float on as if 
the world is on 
an axis to
heaven when
it is spiraling
into oblivion

– no, no
chuckle in 
agony for 
that would be 
too easy

We don’t
deserve the
burst of cosmos. 
We deserve the
roots of trees
harvesting our
nitrogen and 
insects dining
on our flesh. 

I won’t say that 
over coffee but
I’m thinking it. 
I’m thinking it
while you are
thinking about
dream catchers 
and drifting your
fork over icing
and snapchatting
my grin strung
up by hook and
hidden wire. 

And I am tearing 
apart my ribs
and handing
them off on 
because I
am the eternal
monster said
dreams are
made of. 

– B. 

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