A son is the ink stitched in your arm
a cicatrix thing, a charcoal scar
and all you can hope is that he'll know
not to follow the lines that you once wrote
I'm sorry about the way I said it's not your fault
I'm sorry if it stuck to you or if it fucked you up
Will you still burn me with the boxwood trees?
Will you still scatter me.
I've tasted the salt of a distant sea
it tasted like blood and gasoline.
Got drunk with a girl in a Catholic town
we fucked in her car with our jeans rolled down.
I've been a mirror-bound lover
I've been desperate for the sea
as I've circled the edge of my mirror-bound dreams
by now I've cut all the corners that could sharpen my jaw
so won't you help me step back from the fire I sought.
A son is the glass washed up on shore
my edges are blunt from all the waves I've worn
I'm salty and tough now and seafoam green
and I'm broken enough for you to pocket me.
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