And my ribcage starts to swell just like a

bird shot in mid-air,

mouth smacking stupidly,

growing fat with pressure before it flies apart.

Something that was blue,

and free,

The cool dirt on hard, smooth beak,


We lose these things and we grow old.

You were a balloon or something

empty and hurrying away, or

someone who was headed to the Badlands on a

nihilistic mission,

in a rush.

When you hit the atmosphere and explode,

it’s violent and beautiful.

You live with the pieces.

Or don’t.