all of these red invented monarchies
are slowly turning me into a traditional bad kid.
novas who cradle the gravity they scientifically deny
yet are able to show me where I stand.
quit complaining. who taught you that.
I've only gotten flowers twice,
once from my father.
every meltdown that you write to me
holds the red rim up to the light, show off.
some minister in his study, forgiving himself for everything
no one is tracked. everyone is followed, though.
me, by the storms.