There’s no escape from this, not really.
You were born here and you’ll die here and you’ll be here after that, longer.
You’ll be dirt in the Earth and the bite of the breeze and the tide that rolls in
and ruins a sandcastle.
You’ll fight tooth and nail, kicking and screaming, middle fingers and punk bands and stick n pokes and blood, and they’ll stamp you right out.
Everything is something else, everything is owned.
You give up one to feed into another and nothing is ever just.
You lay your head down on a ruin of their making and they tell you it is your fault
for a car with too much gas
the wrong kind of straw
your makeup brand,
your fifteen minute shower,
the apologies you didn’t make.
And there is no escape from it, not really.
You are just as beaten as the Earth when you become it.
Poetry