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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