Nobody said it had to be recursive.
It just is.
It is what I missed.
It is what they accused me of,
when they said I was reclusive.
But that was intrusive.
A little too inconclusive, and a little too obtuse.
A little lacking in tact.
I had been abused, badly and horrendously.
And so I was checking my facts.
I was making sure that no one else would enact
the kind of brutal monopoly
that partitioned me into death, and endless slavery
once. Once upon a time.
In a space and a life where I had everything
I thought was not a lack.
In a headspace that traumatized me so badly
I created my own Substack, because I was lazy
to write yet another re-run of creativity
to be just another hack
in the cold cruel eyes of that other destiny.
But no worries.
You tried to have an impact, but behold:
each and every shirt after every shirtless photo
actually grew back.
Each and every invitation to die
I will never ever again treat as an attack.
Each and every redemption will fly
in the face of all your ridiculousness instead.
Guess who's back.
Guess who didn't die from your attack.
Guess who has every colour of the rainbow
gleaming from the palms of his brown hands
even, and especially,
white and red
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