Only what has tasted life, fears the process of dying.
I fill my head with gunpowder, so when the world hits me, I explode, I bullet, through the silence, through the noise and into the quiet.
I do not sing because I know how to, I sing because there’s a music itching my throat.
Before my father died, he gifted me a trust-bone, when I laugh too much it’d break, the softness of my tongue would ripen into chaos, large enough to contain the world, sharp enough to dig the ground six feet underneath.
The dance does not stop when the song ends — only when the purpose of the music dies.
When I erase a country from the world map, I notice a new scar on my body, that is to say, you can burn down a home, but never the mark.
