Through years that might as well have been reflections opening wide enough to hold the memories that were-when it came right down to it-not worthy of outlasting me, I performed miracles, confused need for always wanting something more. And what can one do, largely paralyzed, but enable myself, who was a mistake, to continue hiding in my coffin of smoke where I nurtured myself on Your cries and turned Your anguish into something that would hurt You into silence, like the surgical edge of peace ground into some sheet-sweat luminescence. So I put an imaginary bullet through You, so You would slip through Your love of freedom into me, who was waiting with in the dark behind my own dream of wishing to be You. I didn’t believe in Your power anymore, all the holding without touching, so I approached my imagination at point blank range, and fired repeatedly, and put holes through my face because You were that face and I had to shoot one of us. You know, even the not shooting was a kind of shooting since my will was Your will. I knew it was my willingness to kill both of us that widened the room into the reach of that experience until I wasn’t the only one at the end of that hole waving to myself. But I was.

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