I know I’m alive
because my hair keeps growing.
They tell me it’s pretty,
but I don’t know—
it’s really just a pain.

All the icicles that grow in my lungs
when I breathe in the frigid air
(rigid air)
are pulling me down.

I don’t know
if it’s the promise of spring
in my step,
or the bounce in that song
that keeps me going,
but there’s something in not knowing.

I don’t know
if the answer is out there,
or if it’s within
If it’s buried in kindness—
or captured in sin.

I know
that it’s somewhere.
Because they tell me it’s pretty.
And lying about that? Well,
it seems kinda shitty.




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