I confess to being proud of shoulder like the red-winged blackbird, gentle of heart like the coconut fruit, with a brimful mind like the geode rock, swarming with gems and journeys and jolts of well-lived life, life examined until it broke, the color exposed and ossified in the harsh light. I confess to possessing a swan song for a heartbeat, a seashell for a voice, and dark eyes that gaze like a timid knock. I confess to loving love like hemlock and chasing death like an overgrown weed. I confess to living like a liquid moon, too blue to drink, too far gone to hear its name called past the atmosphere.
An empty apology
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