Audrey Diggs

When you let yourself

bloom, the other flowers take notice,

and sometimes they’ll bloom with you.

And then you’ll decorate a wall

in rose petals and lilies,

vines encasing you like

arms around shoulders.

Sometimes, that doesn’t happen.

You bloom on morning ice, a bed of frost

and shrivel into a molted bud. But

that’s okay. At least, that’s what

the internet will tell you.

My therapist says life is inconsistent,

Nature is always twisting in on itself,

spiraling to mirror its helical makeup.

we are all little systems

of syntax and runtime errors,

infinite loops with no output.

Our insides betraying our outsides

in existential rebellion.

We’re all unpredictable. 

I remember puking on someone’s shoes and

their smiling face after-the-fact. The “shit” and “what

the fuck” and “no” lost in pulled corners of the mouth.

I thought: maybe he smiles when he’s angry, like I do,

feelings lost in translation

when they reach the muscles. Inconsistence.

Maybe that’s what she means.

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