We emerged from youth all wide-eyed like the rest. Shedding
skin faster than skin can grow, and armed with hammers,
feathers, blunt knives: words, to meet and to define and to...
but you must know the same games that we played in dirt, in
dusty school yards has found a higher pitch and broader scale
than we feared possible, and someone must be picked last,
and one must bruise and one must fail. And that still twitching
bird was so deceived by a window, so we eulogized fondly,
we dug deep and threw its elegant plumage and frantic black
eyes in a hole, and rushed out to kill something new, so we
could bury that too. The first chapters of lives almost made us
give up altogether. Pushed towards tired forms of self
immolation that seemed so original. I must, we must never
stop watching the sky with our hands in our pockets, stop
peering in windows when we know doors are shut. Stop
yelling small stories and bad jokes and sorrows, and my
voice will scratch to yell many more, but before I spill the
things I mean to hide away, or gouge my eyes with platitudes
of sentiment, I'll drown the urge for permanence and
certainty; crouch down and scrawl my name with yours in wet
cement.