I used to write exclusively in run-ons.
Adding dashes and dots till my sentences collapsed in exhaust.
My egoism wore life like a garish hat.
I hate the photos.
And the internet’s curse of living eternally in the ether.
If only I could burn.
Instead, I am left with the lesson of self-forgiveness.
And the new directive to cut.
Till it shivers in its nakedness.
But I’m not experienced or skilled.
And in my youth, a sucker still for beauty.
So I will only know when I’m actually old,
When I can shed that which was only ever skin.
To the bones of meaning.
The marrow of feeling.
I’ll practice prose.
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