Fourteen

When I was twelve,
I wrote a haiku
about flowers.
It was smothered
in delicious,
perfumed imagery,
and a publishing company
sipped it and spit it
like an aged wine,
into an anthology
for young writers.

When I was thirteen,
I wrote a haiku
about owls or something.
It was smothered
in shit and rusty nails,
and that publishing company
swallowed it up
and pissed it out
in a gutter
where it belonged
miles and miles away
from their newest anthology.

When I was fourteen,
I didn’t bother writing anything.

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