Being born with a tornado
on my forehead
is a secret I’ve carried
for too long,
but it’s hard to explain to those
only seeing a faint mark
what it feels like
to hold back storms in the face of
sunsets and soda commercials
dripping with the sincerity
that lord knows is missing
from my deep conversations
with the cashiers and bag boys
who care enough to stack the bread
on top of the bananas.

There is no true digital sepia
as good as the childhood memories
of days in the meadow before it all blew away,
but I may be imagining the whole thing.


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