Published December 10, 2012 by April Fox

we’ll make up stories
in my crooked little head
simple things, all spiderwebs and
cupcake icing
licked off of our fingers
late at night and let the
crumbs fall on the bed
(the side where he sleeps, and we’ll brush them
to the floor, beside the wall)

and if i carpeted the floor with broken mirrors
would my footsteps lead me only
to bad luck?

i don’t believe in luck or
fate or
precognition, knowing in advance
where i might go but i am certain
that i’d cut my feet
and bleed out on the glass

i just might take the risk
for a different point of view.

the sun is vulgar, times like this
bold and gaudy
not so much a star as a
mutation in the sky
an ugly gap that somehow missed the chance
to fill itself with black

all made up stories start the same
and end the same

we’ll end the same.

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