I wish someone had told me
when my mother would hold me
minutes after birth that the umbilical
cord of life was wrapped around my
throat, no matter how much time I

devote to greatness, I will always be
reeled back, blood on my hands,
dragged through the sands, kicking
and screaming reenacting my arrival
with a bigger departure, nurture and

nature only leads to disaster, earthquakes
my knees shake and vulnerability means
skin rubbed raw, harsh and burning the
chainsaw has picked pieces of my soul,
mine is old and frail, locked in an internal

jail my therapist tells me I’m too hard on
my self, reaching for the top shelf when the
cord holds me back, destiny laughs and
I resist the urge to smear my script, I am
Not the protagonist, or antagonist, I’m

At risk as my character cries out in the dark
With an oncoming train and the promise
Of an end, because after all, there is no

Restart. Not to life.


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