Curling pages tear up the insides of my soul,
Lifting away what had roots only two years gone;
I'm stepping into a new world of black ink
And blacker mouths, cauldrons bubbling bitterly,
And glass vials with hearts bobbing
To surface every three years of endless pressure.
They dance where the promises retie, and they require more:
I cut a circle into my chest, where the pages reconvene
And plop the smelly edge of my decease thoughts
Into white-tinted papers, to dye –
This is my new place and my new fate,
Coated in bubblewrap spheres no longer.