i never broke any bones when i was a child
but i am surrounded by impacted fractures
of time and circumstance and reaction in which
the bone is the beauty in the balance of everything 
around me. i am appalled by such beauty, and i fear
it’s fleeting nature because i never think fast enough
to write it down and i also can’t draw for shit.
i see it in flowers. i can’t prove it though, because
picking one off it’s stem just kills the flower, and
it loses the beauty. it’s unfair, but it’s mostly
condescending. i guess beauty is death but
none of us look good once we start to rot.
call it beautiful and we’ll just call you morbid.
i see the same thing in cigarettes, in the ash
as it burns with life and diminishes with oxygen.
sometimes i just don’t get how those things
are bad for me. sometimes i wonder what i’d
be like now if my mom never told me that the
two kids that looked like me and my brother in
the photograph above her toilet wasn’t actually
me and my brother. i wonder if i’m the only
person who thinks beauty is harder to catch
than air but i have to remind myself that even
if no one hears the tree fall, it’ll still get turned 
into paper eventually. i suppose if everyone
saw these moments for what they were, there
wouldn’t be any beauty left to let slip by.
beauty dies. the christmas tree is already dead
by the time it’s in the middle of your living room.
your dog will die but before it does all the neighbors
will come watch as her kidneys fail. you will 
die, because you have to, and the prayers they
all recite are just coping mechanisms. but before
all of that happens, i am surviving through tiny
moments of chaos when i almost crash my
car into the trunk of a tree because my eyes
are fixated on the sun in the rearview mirror.

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