every time you pick up
a pen
like you could really
wield something
as weighty as
war time depression
as if
the fact that we’ve been in war time for
decades doesn’t matter to you
build like you need somewhere to live like
what good are my bones if I forget how strong they are?
if I keep leaving them vacant
in exchange for time spent in yours
are they ever
really mine?
am i ever really mine?
& 