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.


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