It's the time of year
for poetry
everything ending
slowly cooked in the heat
meat falling off our bones.
It's the time of year
for breaking
and mending
thinking about new beginnings.
My foot on the accelerator
all the way to Frankston
with a hundred dollars
to buy myself freedom
from you.
I'm a skeleton now,
nothing left
bearing bright white,
flesh unbearable no more.
I'm stronger now,
strong enough to carry these thoughts
without straining
In fact,
I barely notice they're there.
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