Letter 042325
Dear Ethel Cain
I feel my death has passed away. That the golden comprehension of my shirtless youth has become touched out of its mind and into a code for unfinished nakedness. My god a scarecrow stuffed with snakeskin and my scarecrow a fetus trying to curl itself to life. I don’t think any of us are here. The pain of being is the pain of not having been. What a fucking thought. There are children who know the sky is a color made to scream at blue. And they die not because they are little.
kingsoftrain 
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