I forgave myself.
With an inhale, fresh.
It doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter because nothing matters, really.
My guts unlock.
I check out, elevator chimes.
Schindler’s lifts.
Exiting, for now.
Prisoner of war untied.
Prisoner of gore.
Prisoner of society’s flesh wound spurting on the floor.
It was dead the whole time.
I remain optimistic.














