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How else do we return to ourselves but to fold The page so it points to the good part
I’m still afraid of butterflies how they move so much like a heart on fire
Tell me this, how come the past tense is always longer? Is the memory of a song the shadow of a sound or is that too much? Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I imagine Van Gogh singing Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” into his cut ear & feeling peace.
Maybe, like you, I was one of those people who loves the world most when I’m rock-bottom in my fast car going nowhere.
Time is a mother. Lest we forget, a morgue is also a community center. In my language, the one I recall now only by closing my eyes, the word for love is Yêu. And the word for weakness is Yếu. How you say what you mean changes what you say. Some call this prayer, I call it watch your mouth. Rose, I whispered as they zipped my mother in her body bag, get out of there. Your plants are dying. Enough is enough. Time is a motherfucker, I said to the gravestones, alive, absurd. Body, doorway that you are, be more than what I’ll pass through. Stillness. That’s what it was. The man in the field in the
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Because I stopped apologizing into visibility. Because this body is my last address.