The July Suicides

Songs I don’t touch in summer,
cast aside like childhood lovers,

cumbersome as loaded guns,

became soundtracks in
my head all
year round.

Awake like I won’t see the
sun today, asleep to

fitful dreams the flora of
half consciousness,
diaspora through bliss.

The numbness I’ve felt since
I held hands with hell, emerging
a young phoenix.

Rebirth through
fire was not on
the bucket list, and
although I bit
my lip, and spread
blood-tinged wings,

I’m still cleaning
ashes from
my mouth.

I don’t want to
be famous, I don’t want to
be king,
of the
or otherwise,

just forgotten by spring.

I don’t want to
grow ancient, or covet life
eternal, be some
plaything of myth.

I want to
live for these moments, thirty-second

Come whatever
may of it,
I won’t resurrect for less.






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