If you scratch at the right angle, you can hear music in a cut sphere of tree rings
As if the tree acquired nothing in centuries of being still but the sound of a year
Can be heard, like the songs of birds at night,
When it is all too easy to forget that they still exist.
I wonder how many rings I would have by now combined
laughing marks of disaster or serotonin.
I cannot identify with my old visual pseudonym
any more than a young girl’s balloon or a few elderley lady’s rings.
Grandma had sat understanding immigration and concubines
in the place- where everyone’s always tired- next to the plastic printed face of the year
and I too had learned how to exist
befriending blanket clichéd night
or the moment, after waking up, kneeling to fraud’s first knight
before opening sunrise, trying to inhale serotonin,
that I would learn to exit.
rehearsing vomit echo words with each time the phone rings
or too many swallows, the weight of the mistakes of the year
I cannot be found in one scar confined
and anyway I’d rather be the mistaken than the night
I was told my worth decreases almost by the year
The false truth of false beauty sharply rings
but I am setting in
Once accumulating anxiety like I accumulated exes.
I think I layer only insecurity, to exist
entailed me to be two grains of sand, to combine
with other people’s false serotonin.
my identity wrings.
And I became a blind person’s dream, whispering good night
where the rest of me exists
and the sound of birds ring
I will always be combined
with Frankenstein, myself from another year’s
I shed the nucleotides that I have
combined and exist: a year of dedicated isolation, to ring
serotonin to unnamed art – those who practice night.