My Story

My story is the decor

in a vault robbed of my

birth certificate.

Painted chapters—

good information about the

berries who influenced me

and the flowers I changed.

Chapter by chapter,

my flag unfurls,

a rainbow stiff in the breeze

on a line that could snap

and cut the sweet planet in half.

The juice will drip into

the hungry mouth

of directionless space.

The epilogue is encased

in purple plastic,

a report with glittering graphs,

sobering statistics.

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