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elsewhere

will i ever stop wishing
i was elsewhere
or believe i should be
elsewhere
or try to actively be elsewhere

fighting twilight with torches, marching
alone, and so without coordinating steps,
not attempting to escape the glass jar,
but suffering regardless
from the tyranny of what
should be.

what should be is not even utopia
it's not the crushing weight of
dreams
but that of
mistakes,

or the compelling drive to make them
or the fear of it having been too late now.

this is not sylvia plath
or a fig tree
it's just me trying
forever to be absent.

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