April 25, 2011

to disappear

She won't color with crayons. It must be marker, especially Sharpie acquired by way of kitchen stool to counter to cabinet to stash. Whatever is bold-er, what stains. What bleeds.

Permanent.

Fever for the moment; hangover of regrets.

She is just like me.

Someday she'll want to put everyone on her back and save them, and then wonder why she can't lift her roots out of the ground, why she isn't light enough to fly away from it all.


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