I don’t know how to be here. On the moon I was with my nephew and I taught him the best form to use when running away from snow. My knees gave out and not all of my brothers stopped breathing. I searched my father online. Mom sent me pics I needed to be there to see. My sons died in this order: daughter, deer ghost, ex-angel. My stomach took suicide as a noise stuck in a falling rabbit. It’s not hard being sad. Take steps. If your son is sick, say a prayer that he is sick long enough to sleep through AI songs about Charlie Kirk. Call your dreams deer dreams then don’t. Fuck them deer. Ohio is a hole in Bethlehem.
kingsoftrain 
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