The sun severed from the sea, the separation each convinced they need. A Polaroid stored and tucked away. Heart in throat; a photo forever misplaced. A stream of nostalgia projects on parchment skin, stones washed away only to be reborn again. I made it out alive. I shed myself and left my skin behind. Unleash the overman. I arrange myself in garden dirt to cover my bones in disarray and that’s okay, because on most days I contain context, style, and grace. You claim all three but you fucked art with red lipstick and a leech. Your parents were justified when they never decoded a foreign language. We know you’re above love and I’m below it. Stamp forever on your wrist for just a moment. You’ve never been opposed to gold and guns. You’ve never read the blood red words that I’ve read.
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