after Counter-Archives to the Narco-City
And there are corners in which words are written
in dust, in bright pink sharpie, in languages forgotten.
We are building cities in our homes. I am not trying
to recreate what was, just destroy what is. I have pulled
all my hair out, made a nest. It is fine but full, and if we weave
tight enough, we swing far above it all, hold on, but I’m not
worried, we are ashes— scatter, hold.
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