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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