Coffee After Midnight

The beauty in being
birds of
prey
is we
can fly away,
and broken between our
beaks,
are songbirds.

We’ve taken those who have hurt us and made sure they have heard us, the events that earned us invisible scars

(down my conscience and
other body
parts not labelled on
a doctor’s chart)

and given them forum,
and together with
optimism and boredom,
formed quorums t’ward
post-mortem
peace.

I don’t want to die before
I’ve slain a certain beast but not
everyone survives the hunt and I’m already
losing blood,
coughing up half
a linguistic
lung to simply
catch my breath.

Ocean of darkness,
epilepsy of light,

an eclipse happening in my chest.

Give me insight like
coffee after
midnight,
long past the time your
inner child belongs in bed.

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