I drew hearts in middle school, like everyone else.

My back is popping, my hands are too.

the days pass like feathers laid on each other, stained and stuck with spilled oil

I am tired of being surrounded with things that feel like they’re blowing away

disintegrating, flickering, eroding, wearing through too fast

It’s a collection of holograms and plastic tablecloths

Trees here stay alive with deep taproots

the shallow ones wither,

slowly