FOOL.S.GOLD
2.6.21
spit my name from your woes, I don’t need another martyr.
I split bread with memory daily, we choose which oils will moisten the gluten in our past.
You ask me to balance a life you’ve forgotten to weigh against another. Pushing expectation against the grit of my own battles.
Even still I send medics to self-inflicted injuries. Watch them turn first aid kidts inwards after marching back home from out of policy cancellations.
Instead of seeing car rentals, you navigate your map to resentment and indignation.
Go then, go punch the ocean in the wave while I soothe the injuries you bristle at. My job applications, car rentals, and familiar moralities. I hope the fist you drive through the water finds more substance than the ones you drove through your spleen.