I like getting older.
It's nostalgic
In a honey mustard kind of way.
About the Creator
Who is Fate
March 5 2026 Forgiveness is a man I met last night. The moon was stuck behind a building and I couldn’t climb anywhere near it. He told me my efforts were hollow— God bless your mind but it’s got no use here. Craters dug into my palms by his crescent nails left me with brandings— belonging to a foe is more than belonging to none at all. More implication, more value, more sense of thing; so I ask Forgiveness a series of questions and he does not answer. What am I meant to do? When the moon watches me and I cannot return the same. My nails have been gone since the second my teeth grew tall, so I am left taking and never giving. I am left in darkness with no moon and no place to be, no thing to which I belong, a foe’s mark and rigid divots in enamel. If every part of this body is branded, where will my soul continue? Where does it stop now that I am fluid in daytime wires? Lampposts line every street forever and he knows I’m weighing them down. The power’s been out this whole time. Can I ask you one last question? Who decides my fate now that I’m dead?
By Olivia Dodgea day ago in Poets
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