been writing this same poem for years

Since I have already been handed
one too many maps to my body.

We’ve established that it is buried.

At least, I know what’s it’s like to be
too tragedy
to be alive
and
too alive
to be forgotten.

Too alive
to be left alone.

Is this what equal rights,
i mean,
extra rights,
are?

To have your coffin
upgraded
to a lounging room.
To be able to walk around
the events,
maybe even be a little
productive
and bury yourself.

Somewhere between trampled and fighting back,
I am the vines around neon sighs
that do a better job that the lights
to get you to ask yourself if I’m
worth the hassle of entry.

Somewhere between tramped and fighting back,
I’m the flower that hates its body
for growing around the foot that stepped
on it. You call it survival, i
call these genes battle scars.

Somewhere between tramped and fighting back
withered under the weight of holding back.
I am spitting out dirt,
I am
digging
my way
out.

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