I wake inside the rumor of myself— a throat unbuttoned from its blood. Some mornings, the mirror hisses choose. So I do: I choose the damage that glows. The room smells faintly of rust  & raw meat. All my faces file a complaint. Each one shaping holiness  from a different wound. I inventory the artifacts: a blister shaped like a confession, a spine rehearsing its own refusal. In the kitchen, a knife hums in its sleep— its dream: a tongue that never stops splitting. History wa

don’t call it necklace   if it left a ring of sleep     where my breath should’ve lived

(after the snow, after the silence)

You're gonna feel bad in your compound now

Ashes are another form of tears, after crying, after losing a homeland.

American comeback, prove me wrong Charlie took a bullet, and then he was gone. Its like this new era is a rhyme in a song and this song has been playing far too long

Town reset In a matter of weeks Holy ones rising Upsetting the peace And when your crown Slipped away Leaving his throne empty He threw his country away Knocking at your door They want your family & more The king is dead And the country is at war But just a plane ride away In our restaurants and clubs Where people dance and Waiters wear gloves.

remember that every teenager you meet online is secretly a wrinkly old man