Poetry

 

i am a tropic of cancer, every nerve is on fire, i am burning. an illusion of metaphors, why can’t the damned every save themselves. i beg to be let go, tropic of cancer is my being, let the fire consume me, i need a legacy, i need this more than you do. there's honesty in the face of death, and i’m tired were the lights always this far? i think more about this than you do, regrets give me a direction to turn from.
i must be screwed or alive to realize this (I suppose they’re the same)
my tropic of cancer has outlived the pain, the sorrow, the goodbyes, the air. it is going but-
we are all going

©2020 by Micaela Miller