I am sad like the river.
All the trees look somehow panicked.
I am standing more rigid than any piece of nature in the museum I call outside,
a place I still hate.
But I can breathe today.
Someone is watching me from a cheap bridge.
Has this person jumped off this bridge a hundred times in front of me and for
how long have I been staring like I don't want to know?
I notice this person's jacket in the river like a purple manta ray, so ugly I think
about what's between my legs.
As the jacket moves toward me, as the river is moving toward me, making me
want to cry again, I see tiny squares of condoms branching along the
surface of the water.
A school of what you never get comes floating by.
I just lay there.
I think this person on the bridge is too embarrassed to come down.
Then live there.
Wallow on the bridge.
I'll take your jacket.
And perform summersaults in it.
Make love to it for you until I'm coughing sick.
I'm going to break you into anything more significant.
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