I am angry that I have never woken up

And not known how I got there,


That I have never disappeared in the dead of night

And stayed missing for days on end.


I am angry that I have a heart

Prone only to aches and emptiness


And not that savage flaming core

That leaves you dead by thirty.


I catch the wind, but it becomes a breeze

When I try to ride its stallions.


I wrestle the sea but always end

Facedown in a tiny puddle.


When I come to I appear unphased

With my green, dullard’s eyes.


I live between one nothing and the next.

In photos my wings appear as fat, flabby arms.


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