I am going to a place
this place is only glass
I used to be, as well.
(I was a lot of things).
A city is fitting
bend and tangle like chicken wire
while you shine through me
my afternoon sun. (I’m a grid, Manhattan,
you’re a forest)
How many start overs are you allotted
before you’re someone else?
When you’ve shed more than skin but
your heart and your blood?
I’d like to one day be cleansed of the
evil I used to be
though I deserve a couple more stranger makings.
It truly is lesson after lesson
in moving forward. It feels like there is nothing
else to do but become better.