i was told a bedtime story--
a boy had a shotgun and saw a crow
and the crow was gone
in a puff of feathers and a tiny crack.

anyone's eyes on me
and i am gone, same as the crow.
i am an unholy pinocchio and my pine
would charcoal in the sun.
i was not drawn with an outline.

my molecules are safer
in the dark, when the atmosphere
presses heavy on my clothes
to keep me in.

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