True lies 

“The truth is I got on the bus as a boy and I never got off the bus. I still haven’t.”

— Donald Glover

When you feel grief inside of you

Like a beach ball from your childhood

Turned now to monarch butterflies

Eating each other alive for space

In the innards of your torso
You imagine this protrude: grief

An arrow shining in his hand

Mutating, moving, like pulsating blood and

skin, that wants, wants, wants, to expand


That he can throw

Knowing of its power

Seeing its physical deformity


But grief is not a live thing to the

practitioner of sin

As it is to the sufferer

It is not an animal, alien

He has throw into you

With sharp intent


It is a thing that has grown inside of you

With your blood

And teeth; wide, pearly

Veins thick and alive and ready

And that is how you know

You have life inside

You are not empty

You are life itself


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