(thumb through pages past, year after year of Februaries scattered in your wake, always with the same beginnings in darkness and ends in surprised sunlight. you die every year, every year you let six feet of dirt cover you, but every year you outlast the dark, and when the sun returns, so do you.
there may be a lesson in there somewhere, but it's too simplistic, too asinine. send it to an agent and hear them say it's too unrealistic. like you didn't have four decades of its scars under your skin.
it's only disease, it's only disease, it's only a cancer rotting your flesh from the inside and once it passes, you will see your thoughts as they are, again.
it's just every year the groove gets a little harder to step out of,
the familiar tracks get deeper in the mud.
all you know how to do is add more pages to the pile.
even if what you're building is a pyre.)
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