I can, like, like red bird, to sing.
To tell the world of the mysteries unveiled.
to dance across red lips with my words and
leave a trail of glittering stars like the thickest Milk Way leading us home.
That was the plan.
The contract I made to be red bird singing.
But I’m not a red bird.
the red of my triangle mouth is not red
it’s corpse blue, not an unpleasant shade
but not alive
not glittering
not enticing you to remember the place from before
not remembering itself the place before nor the words to the song I promised to sing
My voice is thready, not boisterous
It’s soft.
It doesn’t ripple on the water as it plays.
Adulting is hard
Humaning is hard
but sometimes when I’m still
I can hum
and maybe you feel that hun while
Jupiter glitter hello to Venus and it’s enough
that I tried.
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