you’re 15 and a boy puts his head
down the guillotine
and he winks at you
and smiles
and his head falls off
and from his body gushes the universe:
every word he said, every fight he made,
every glance he made your way
his smile stains galaxies on the gallons.

you’re 15 and you tell yourself that this
is not worth being a revolutionary
because what’s inside your body is stardust
and the cosmos can’t bare to see their energy
spilled out, gushed out. wasted—
wasted on someone trying too hard to see
through glass eyes.

you’re 15 and mother tells you to run fast
because your memories are burning holes
through the fabric of voices that have kept you
so you run you run until you vomit purple and your lungs
turn into icicles
you run until your vision is flying
you run until the moon becomes your only
because even the stars are too scared to
shine with you

you run until darkness cuts
your soul in half…

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