Hood up, head down
sneaking back in to
my hideout; empty hands
at the end of cookie-cutter
wrists, a black star fading
on the side of my hip: remnants
of the life I've lived, the price
I paid and what it cost me,
the sacrifice I made and
why I lost it, too young
to be this exhausted.

Time has only been
kind to my soul, the 
weight of countless years
in my bones, catching every
stone they throw, never
outgrowing the places we
go to hide, to cry, to write;
giving in to the chase when
it's our life at stake,
something to do for 
it's own sake: exist.

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