Every year it comes closer,
but week to week it seems
there’s no end in sight.
Here comes another cake,
the canned song,
the candlelight bright enough
to conceal your disappointment
for another night.
I grew up on a hill
in the old forest above
an abandoned yellow field.
There I’ll find an empty burrow.
When I crawl in – a last favor –
cover it with flat, shell-fossiled rocks,
moss and damp leaves.
Cool silence is a gift,
and I know the world will carry
on and on just as well
as it did before I came out
screaming.
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