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park bench.

knife to my palm,

eyes on the fire,

you come rushing to the rescue.

i have good news and

bad news, you say,

which first?

i say the good news,

so of course, you start

with the bad news.

you’ve been robbed of

all your integrity,

your gems of bask,

arrogant paints.

you’ve been robbed of

all you are,

and all that’s left is

smoke and ash.

you say the good news is

that you yield no smoke;

that you breathe no ash.

i stroke my treasures

of nicotine and flame and

you, all hidden

within my pockets.

you say the good news is

that you’re alive,

but we all know

that’s not so true.

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