This is me.

Thereโ€™s a poem in this. I can see the edges of it, the way you see the blackness soften to reveal the shape of the leaves as the night sky shifts dawnward. The way the wind speaks sideways, translated through the poetry of the branches. The way the roots dig deep, hidden under the false gods
Layers of silt and old chicken scratch haiku
Mulch poured over the transplanted greenery we present to the city councilmen for approval
As though Iโ€™m fueled by a higher grade of falsehood, instead of the Sausage Egg and Cheese McMuffin I ate curbside this morning.
Iโ€™d rather honor the McMuffin.
Handwritten, cursive signature says "pea flower tea" in lowercase letters. The flower is a small sketch of a bloom, instead of the word for "flower".
If an idea doesn't explode orgasms of bright sparks, cascading into and setting my own dark places alight, then I probably won't write about it.

Tell me something that moves you.

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