The Arc

Some piece of me is always broken
and bleeding–ripped skin or accidental

slashing–is any human really supposed
to play with knives? Or anything other

than pushpin fingertips? Vulnerability,
constant aching sent to the brain,

I’m ready to go back, fight humidity
with stoicism (I learned that from my father)

I’ll fight with daggers to take down
that balloon in the sky, fly away in its place.

Just let me commandeer you one last time,
crumbling city, just let me soak my memories

in your Southern charm, your drunk
cobblestone paths, they lead us nowhere…

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