I plug my nose during my baptism, release my grip once I am dunked in the holy water of existential academics, letting it flood me. Water seeps through the crevices of my brain and tattoos the inside of my skin. I know I will need to go up for air, but some people drown in shallow water.
Who gets to decide when the beginning is? A carousel with decorative horses spins continuously, I’m starting to forget when I even got on. I waltzed through fourth grade, toting a lunch bag with a peanut butter jelly sandwich. Freshman year, and the peanut butter has outweighed the jelly by a lot.
Subconsciously, my thoughts stream out. My fingerprints on the keyboard, but I branded my hand on the pen. I cannot wait for the ink to dry, my life contorted with smokey smudged clouds.
Smudged, like the eyeliner I rub off my face after watching my silhouette curse at the late subway. Sensually, night creeps up on Ninth Street, and my lack of velocity slipped under my pillow. Watching timelines merge into my duvet, for isn’t history embroidered with philosophy?
All that I know is my heart cannot be broken, instead clawed out. Love hurts, but loss scars. And comfort may not exist beyond winter air countered with mounds of blankets.
I pray to pomegranate seeds, each one ripe with divinity. G-d spoke to Moses through the burning bush, but I walked away from the fire with burns.
Who gets to decide when the beginning is? A carousel with decorative horses spins continuously, I’m starting to forget when I even got on. I waltzed through fourth grade, toting a lunch bag with a peanut butter jelly sandwich. Freshman year, and the peanut butter has outweighed the jelly by a lot.
Subconsciously, my thoughts stream out. My fingerprints on the keyboard, but I branded my hand on the pen. I cannot wait for the ink to dry, my life contorted with smokey smudged clouds.
Smudged, like the eyeliner I rub off my face after watching my silhouette curse at the late subway. Sensually, night creeps up on Ninth Street, and my lack of velocity slipped under my pillow. Watching timelines merge into my duvet, for isn’t history embroidered with philosophy?
All that I know is my heart cannot be broken, instead clawed out. Love hurts, but loss scars. And comfort may not exist beyond winter air countered with mounds of blankets.
I pray to pomegranate seeds, each one ripe with divinity. G-d spoke to Moses through the burning bush, but I walked away from the fire with burns.
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