F*ck It

I’m not one of the originals
nor a pioneer.

I did not unearth a kingdom
or liberate frontiers. I will not
leave some
legacy to be revered. I’m just a
narcissist
allowed a pen like it’s a pair of
unsharpened
shears,

my weapon, my switch
blade,
my bombardier-

to cut out my heart if it commandeers emotion, taking toy souvenirs, little soldiers of my childhood and melting their plastic fears into something worthy of fearing, forging future mutineers with nowhere to come home to, so little to hold onto, knowing everything they once held dear is gone.

But as time
went on, just like
fossils and Scotch,

I realized the bonfire could not burn everything, the paper would not assimilate all my inner anarchy, that I could only parry with my idols before my envy glared through vinyl and I was labelled archetypal, a recycled version of events considered final.

But I can smile,
say fuck it,
rile the
chimera I was lucky enough
to fall in love with,

staring into
the monstrous hazels
of my denial.

I was rudderless before it,
and I’ll be lost forever after.

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