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As I Do

By Soda

lately, i am all pulse and no beat,
a stinging wire
buzzing naked
on the pavement

stitches. stitches.
i fight.
i crack up the inseams
tell her, on dust-covered shelves
to get a new life.

the orange face fading
on a poster of a demonic air-shot fist,
raised like
hell and revolution and messiah
are earth-bound at this intersection.
Because hope-
the fuel that feeds
the whole damned venture
must roll to you
over photocopied cause.

Yes. We are Fighting the Good Fight.
All of Us.
in opposition.

i pull her from my old frames.
i dare ask her:
“where are you now?
do you believe the wonder i have become?”
I do not.

remember me as i do-
a scared boygirl
with too-late
thumb-sucking addiction
and greasy pink glasses.

Remember me as i do-
a girl in parachute pants
with undone hair and lack of boyfriend.

Remember Me as I do-
a sweater
in a high school dance of dresses

I am crumpled-up paper.
A story waiting to blow.
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