This is a quiet discourse
to tell you I know you’re doing fine
and bloody murder shouldn’t enter
into the mind of a ten-year-old.

The night is only as long as our shirttails
and afternoon stories should be given
the weight of therapy and confession
for those of us who can’t get out of bed
without a race of anxiety.

Maybe our lips will stop bleeding
when we stop begging
for an end to our suffering
without taking any action to secure it for ourselves.

A fire could cleanse right about now
but a shot is all we have,
so let’s let it speak for itself
and leave a good story in its wake.


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