Our violet buds close, open to white shovels all in a line. Time is like your foot tapping, trapping anthills in the grooves of your shoe soles. We sat through thousands of sermons—said hundreds ourselves. Closed now, my shop of shattered things, my raven croak gargling sunlight. Conformity isn’t as bad as they say. Rabbits zig zag even when they’re alone. Dead, we all conform anyways. Might as well die now, let ourselves cry steel nails jammed deep down in our sweaty, symmetrical palms.
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