to a clear night

Anger slides me roughly down the door,
leaving a heap of itself on the floor;
a seed of fury,
stifled,
reaching,
raw.
Aching
so long to grow
into..

existence?
nonexistence?

Escape.


*(still drafting)*

Nationality.

Nothing is the same in this place.

Here it's not "turning over a new leaf",
and there is no clean linen of snow.

The colors turn like something decaying.


Curdled milk falls from the dirty glass above,
won't allow me to forget my first true love.

":american".

x

doors

Doors slam shut
on my tear-tracked face
from every direction,
even yours.

So here I stand,
at my last escape,
the threshold of
the filthiest of doors.