Who knows what I could become given the tools.
I could become an even more monstrously beautiful person. I would grew wings, fangs, a sense of ambition and fly to an island full of unfit mothers.
I could become what I have always hated, that which has, that which carries all, that which is the smuggest asshole ever.
I could become a mail box. I could accept and hold your thoughts, packages and semen.
I could become a bag of nails. Useful at some point, but never in the current context. Sharp, cutting and unforgiving.
I could become a body of water. Holding the pain of the world inside. Holding the past and the future just barely, ebbing and flowing with the moon.
I could become a flower, soaking in the sun. Bright, beautiful, but drowning in a sea of familiar strangers.
I could become a black bird. Flying away and always towards another horizon, thinking only of the next goodbye.
I could become something I haven’t yet been and discovered. Formless, floating from emptiness to emptiness.
